the wounded hands

Yo no quiero más que una mano,

una mano herida, si es posible.

…a Spanish princess, who, when she grew old and wizened,

allowed the court painter,

the official artist of the realm, to capture on canvas

only her hands, which had remained tender, unblistered,

unblemished – the reminder and sign of her

original personality…

When will I see your hands? she asked her mother.

Not now, not yet.

I’ve worn these gloves

since the fire that widowed me

singed them, almost consumed them.

I don’t know if you could stand

the sight,

the terrible scarring from the flames.

Her daughter still entreated her,

Let me see your secret hands.

No one she knew

had ever seen them.

Always her mother replied,

Not now, not yet.

But when, her daughter asked,

when will I be ready?

When you are inflamed by love,

someday,

then I’ll show you,

but not until you love truly.

II

The girl grew, until

she met a man,

after many boys,

who sparked wonders in her.

They made each other new

every day, discovering

the taste and touch

beyond society.

I’m ready to see

your hands.

I’m ready

because of love.

Her mother, pale, wrinkled,

tired, thin,

sighed to see the ache

in her daughter’s face.

Prepare yourself,

she said.

Sit

near me.

Slowly her mother removed

one glove, then

the other, and revealed

white immaculate hands.

The two shuddered

at their otherworldly beauty,

the still youthful hands

that could mold generations.

So you see,

she said, turning them

as if they were a fugitive

mirage,

why I can never,

and must never,

show them

to anyone else.

Few could bear

such grace.

Few could bear the tragedy

of such a vision.