My Hands in Winter



                                              - Jessica Greenbaum

Their backs, when flat, are like the ice of lakes
on which the wind has skated all these years
recording in a trawling script their work
in bare reconnaissance: to fish for keys
in blowing snow, or hotly sunk, to test
the bath and wash a life of pots. Within
the mesh of figure 8s now scrawled around
our joints are also etched initials of
the loves we lifted, then watched walk, held close
and when our time ran out, let go. Time flowed
like water through our hands and so the words,
hello, goodbye, are dyed below their ice
like watermarks a sheet of paper names
when raised, as waving hands are, to the light.