Summer 1988 • Vol. X No. 3 Poetry |

The Hand

Her small life as a daughter and sister and aunt was a story of hands, the one which they knew her by, high up at her side like a fin, the other which looked like theirs, so nobody saw it find by itself the strings of her apron, or lift eggs out of a nest between fingers, or loosen and close the west window in dusk, its palm pressed to the vanishing glass.

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Ghosts

By Wesley McNair

Her small life as a daughter and sister and aunt was a story of hands, the one which they knew her by, high up at her side like a fin, […]

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