are building a crustaceous shell
like a lobster, boiled and breaded.
One is the torn liner in an old woolen coat,
the other is wood polished with ammonia.
They are mountains crumbling to sand,
faded maps made of November tree bark,
sentient lumps of chalk and driftwood.
The winter wind blows them down
on the ground like leaves, bitter and dead.
Note: the cold weather has made my hands dry, but not nearly as dry as I exaggerate them to be in this poem. Don’t worry, I have heard of moisturizer.
ALSO, check out my latest LAID post: Sure he's a slut, but what does that have to do with politics?
Photo by Rob Hingle
I was uninspired today, so I did this poem as kind of an exercise in writing metaphors. Can you think of a metaphor for your hands that reflects the way they look or feel, the way you use them or some other quality?