Raunacht Collection: Day 02
Your rough-hewn hands
Move over my anxious skin.
Head, neck, shoulders, arms, hands.
Head, neck, shoulders, arms, hands.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
A little twirl,
more emphasise as you move over my hands,
and out and away.
I ought to sleep.
Alas I can’t.
My skin burns from carrying the day:
smells, sounds, colours have seeped into my epidermis,
setting the organ alight.
My stomach churns with thoughts and questions.
My brain spin tales and stories.
It won’t stop.
So you begin to sing.
Let the sound carry all away.
Let the sound quiet the stories
soothe the stomach.
All the while your hands move in their duty
of gathering an anxious child back into her body.
Poetry by Nathalie 