A Memoir Of Hands and Arms

I have held a child
And I have held countless hands –
friends, almost-lovers, strangers, clocks,
And I have held
suitcases and bombs and
brown paper packages wrapped up in strings,
and a disastrous pink envelope,
And I have held my tongue,
And I have held my heavy head in my hands
And I have held myself back
because I was afraid of succeeding
and all its implications,
And I have held others back
for my own selfish purposes
for all intents and purposes
for all intensive purposes,
like in the intensive care unit
of the veterinary hospital
where I held the dying dog
in my arms
that my father had hit in his
truck, and I
pretended the dog was mine
for a little bit
before they took him away.
And I have held my breath
for him
for him
for the hymns we sang in church
that I now lack the conviction for,
And I have held the world
in the palm of my hand
once
when I was a child
pretending to be the statue
of the Emperor Constantine,
And I could have held
infinity in the palm of my
hand, like William Blake
but math cautioned me
against it
so I never did.
And all the time I've been doing this holding
I've wanted to be held
so much
so badly
but not once,
I'd put my arms around myself instead
pretend they weren't my own
close my eyes
hear songs in my head
but when I open them
the world is too bright
too much
for one me alone,
And it's too often that I'm
the kind of sad
that'd be instantly fixed if
someone only held me,
But I've only ever been held

in contempt
of court
and others.