Mary Arnold

extremities

Your hands lie still at your sides. Your dad takes your left one in his. I timidly cover your right one with mine, curling my fingers around yours. We’ve hugged, high-fived, but this is the first time I’ve ever held your hand, an intimate gesture without your consent. I hope you won’t mind, half-expecting and maybe half-hoping you’ll pull away to show a little spunk. There’s no response. Not a tug. Not a twitch. Just bone-deep cold. So we hold on to your hands with you between us and talk about the weather.

intensive care
the phantom pain
of what-if

---

Mary Arnold is a poet, early education administrator, and enthusiastic yet novice ukulele player. She enjoys living in beautiful western North Carolina with Beckett, her husband, and Trixie, their canine companion. This is her first poem to be published by contemporary haibun online. Other work has appeared or is forthcoming in Failed Haiku, Frogpond, The Heron’s Nest and Drifting Sands. 

---