Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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My Father’s Hands
The cracks in my father’s hands
come out in winter.
Rivulets of blood ooze across his pale hands.
Remind me
he was forced to repair sewing machines.
This writer blacklisted in the fifties.
Hands, etched by a decade of turpentine.

The cracks in my father’s hands
come out in spring.
Oceans of blood stream like tears across his broad hands.
Remind me
he lost his only brother, just 23.
A medic, trying to save a life
on the beaches of Normandy.

The cracks in my father’s hands
come out in fall.
Waves of blood gush across his knowing hands.
Remind me
this engineer was expelled from college for demonstrating against ROTC.
Diploma, snatched from his hands
one semester away from graduation.

They say, “Time heals all wounds.”
But not the cracks in my father’s hands.


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In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.