Challenging Poetry

should thy right hand offend thee, cut it off

once, a woman
despised her right hand.

and so she cut it off,
and put it in a coffin
that she carried
ever afterward, sneering
at it in its box and opening
it to show to her hairdresser,
and her girlfriends,
and her daughter,
and the stranger
who missed the bus
because she delayed him
with her story.

and when her daughter was grown
and the hand twenty years dead,
she asked,
but mother, couldn’t you
bury it away? put it down
and see me—see your grandchildren
see the brightness of the sun
and feel the touch of honeysuckle
on your cheeks—

but the woman could not,
and her daughter went away
to dwell in a far city
where her children would not have to hear
the story of their grandmother’s hand.

and so the woman was alone,
and her mouth
drew ever downwards
because of the constant evil
of her hand, and she bruised it
and bloodied it,
and stared at it
all her waking hours
until even in her dreams,
the hand followed.
always.