Rheumatic

D. A. Feinfeld, MD

The serpent-god has cursed her hands

to slither sidelong forever, never caress,

only to grope past each instant,

old loves beyond her painful reach.

The hands curl round her walker's handles

like vines struggling up a fence;

if tendrils untwist and again run straight

they might reach again for needle and cloth.

She moves the cage forward, plants

its four pads the way a cat lands.

The floor comes to a fork: she fights

indecision, groans ahead,

paths lighted by flickers of pain

that harden her limbs to driftwood.

Long nails gnarled into unwanted fists,

she tries to unclench fingers that bend

like a beam passing through time's glass.

FULL TEXT

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2005 American College of Physicians