Uncle
1
Your hands I remember most.
They were not particularly large
but possessed a remarkable
strength,
crossed in your lap the last time I
saw you;
a gauzy L.A. afternoon
in the room
with orange chairs and wooden
tables,
the room where everyone talked
of politics and change.
Later, in the study,
watching Timothy Leary laud acid,
the veins in your face distended.
This is the only reality!
What you can touch!
Your hands, muscular and steady
around a drink,
betrayed nothing.
On television, the city burned.
2
Uncle, today you drive
through the wet streets of London,
a tiny bottle of Valium
lying on the seat beside you.
You watch the punks spray
Anarchy! and Satan Lives
!
on the pillars of the overpass.
At work, you line up the metal
and punch through.
In the twilight chill,
your great hands hold a spade,
flicking a rock aside in the roses.
Through it all,
the hollows under your nails
stay pink and clean.
Vivid and strong,
drinking thick English beer, uncle,
did you care
about anyone at all?
In the darkness,
we loosen in the air over your
head,
an expanding lasso of chain,
tiny men and woman with linked
arms.
Then your hands are lifting me,
uncle, nephew, and then I'm
a huge man lifting you and you're
receding,
your hands reaching,
but you rise alone.
3
Look at your hands.
They are flowers
at the ends of your arms.
The only divinities
I have ever seen.
You shake them and they fall off.
4
I have inherited your hands.
I screw them in
like light bulbs.
They are heavy
and I cannot control them.
Uncle
they are just beautiful enough
to burn.