Wednesday, September 24, 2008


I remember,
when his hands held baseball bats,
when there were blisters from weight training,
and when his fingers squeezed mine.

those fingers are trapped, curled in.
Chipped, calloused pieces of skin
have formed rough elephant scales on the outer palm
where he grinds against the rubber of his wheelchair.

I wonder why
he just doesn’t wear gloves
and his tired eyes tell me
I won’t ever be able to understand this notion of pride.


emmapeelDallas said...

This is really beautiful, Brooke...and very, very sad...

Anonymous said...

BROOKE! OH my goodness. You DO have a blog!!

What a beautiful poem -- I hope you don't mind me eavesdropping and reading.