Grandfather's Hands

Does it make you angry
To see her stand independently now
Does it make you mad
To see that she's stable
As you peer up at her
From beneath death's shroud,
Do you secretly wish
That she had turned out
As deranged and estranged as you were,
Fiendishly touching the creamy white thigh
Of a ten year - old girl,
Zealously exploring the uncharted terrain
Of her newly forming breasts
All the while your raspy voice
Scaring her, Yet reassuring her
As you promise.

Quiet child, it's Ok
Quiet child, no one will see us
Quiet child, there's no one to hear you scream

With each weekend visit
You plucked at her feathers
Till you had robbed this dove
Of her wings,
Souring her in every way possible
Like a slithering worm
Poisoning an apple
That wasn't quite ripe ...

A woman now, she knows
That the way you touched her
Was the way your father touched you;
Forgiveness, like a caring mother,
Has mended her broken spirit

Yet, she still wonders how it is
That she is meant
To understand what love is
When your wrinkled hands
Served as her only teacher 
***