I.
hand of death
abacus of unlearning
each thin bone
each pale, ivory finger
slides
a bead of sweat⠀
across the face of time⠀
and you, fair seamstress,
every stitch undoes the last⠀
ornaments hang prettily
from the turnstiles,
distracting pedestrians
away from
important negotiations⠀
II.
hand of the strong
rings and signets of distinction
crests of valor, copious decorations
from cabinet members and kings
high officers, ambassadors of
salient authorities⠀
night grinds no pathways in your forehead
sunrise lays no price upon your crown⠀
your mouth greets each meal with hope,
expects it to charge you
with command of your faculties⠀
the crone does not dazzle you,
nor hold your children for ransom⠀
III.
hand of the child
you hold all knowledge of the Tao
in your small, curled palm
your eyes roll like Saturn and
Sundays mean nothing from Thursdays⠀
You alone know that our pebble throne
shoots itself around the sun
at thirty miles a minute⠀
you, and no other,
can comprehend the spectacle of the
bumblebee⠀
you grow backwards
strange little sage
choosing to count your toes
in your mouth
a setting of ornate jewels
scroll of learning
you erase one thing each day
throw away one dream
each night⠀
hagfish demon birds peck at your eyes
you are impervious to their attacks
since you tell yourself⠀
that you do not see them
and you are still able to believe
what you say
to yourself
questions fall from the trees
and you crawl over them
unconcerned
until tomorrow
©2026 Kevin Trent Boswell
Author’s Note: This is one of my favorite poems I’ve ever written.
From the book Liber ex Liberi – The Book of Children by Kevin Trent Boswell
