It’s so simple in the sunlight,
the hands move like birds,
pear-weight planets
flying into orbit,
they fish spoons from the drain,
weed sand burrs from the dog.
The hands know the delicacy
of a moment:
the formation of a suture loop,
picking meat from the bone.
The arms,
they carry a weight-
a dead blue pine for the curb,
an udder of dirt clinging.
The cocktail tray,
the spaghetti plates gliding around,
balance and serve and serve.
Heavy child. Heavy wood.
My arms are a winter landfill —

wind wrecked and spined,
small hills of white mattress bones.
In the dark night, a hand will destroy
what the arm bears —

the scars, they rise like wakes,
the white lines
of something heavy

Nancy Pearson


A hip on its hinges, non-unioned,
a ball of bone flattened
from thrust and pound.
Cement and screw.
A device can make a woman metal.
When ionized, do I heal or harden?
Years they said, spread wider
starfished, beached.
I dreamt of sea horses,
swimming upright
through the eelgrass.
My cane becomes a fin.
My bones —

tiny wind-notched things.
Before I die, know this too:
my hip recorded progress —

on a winter day I climbed and climbed
and quelled my past.
The weary cauldron drags the muscle
home and home.
Bent horse, bony hard thing,
upright and swimming.

Nancy Pearson
NANCY PEARSON recently graduated with an MFA in Poetry from George Mason University. She works as Procurement Specialist in Washington, D.C., and has no idea what that means. Nancy has been published in Folio, Phoebe, Brick and Mortar Review, Kalliope and in the forthcoming Margie. She was nominated for a Pushcart in 2005.
The Adirondack Review
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award