When I hear my name-Alaimo-I see
my father's left hand. The one that wore
on its fourth finger his gold wedding band.
It was not the hand that hit us. That hand
was the right. It was not the hand that held
my mother's in the photographs, the four
of us watching until we became five,
too many kids to try to keep alive
in those hard times without a salary
to feed us with. It's difficult to tell
how he managed it. He didn't survive
our childhood. He was a quiet man
and a poor one, this name his gift to me
proffered by that hand that never hit me.
My Father's Hand by Angela Alaimo O'Donnell | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
