What the Hands Remember

They taught me to fold
call on Sundays
say I love you
mean it

It took years to learn that last part
the way you learn a language by losing one first

The candle on the sill has been burning since Tuesday
I haven't touched it
some things you let alone

I hear a child somewhere below me
not crying exactly
something between wanting and not knowing the word for it
I know that place

The flame throws my shadow long across the wall
and my hands in the dark look like my mother's hands
reaching for something already gone
or just reaching
I can't always tell

I say my own name quietly sometimes
to see if it still fits
tonight it does
that surprises me

I answer when someone calls
without rehearsing first
without checking the exits
just answer

--Vera