These Hands

A beautiful poem by Makhosazana Xaba, from her debut collection of poetry, These Hands.

HANDLE WITH CARE

If tomorrow I awaken in smithereens
like a glass bowl after an explosion
on a hot stove plate,
will you pick me up
piece by piece,
moving the furniture
inch by inch?

Will you tactfully
go through the cutlery drawer
if the blast found it ajar,
uncover me amidst the clutter,
then, dress the drawer anew?

Will you look
to the far most point
from the stove
until you find
that one bit of me?

Will you shine a torch
into dark corners,
behind and around?

Will you peep through
and reach out
into lean corridors,
alongside immovables?

Will you pace gently
and if, perchance,
you step on me,
remove me?
But taking time and care
as you would
with a farewell kiss?

Will you pour your eyes into the sink,
using the tips of your fingers
to save particles of me
from drowning
or going down the drain?

Will you flip the kitchen cloth
with tenderness so that
those bits of me
are not insulted?

Will you take a careful look
on every surface
of the kitchen cabinets
for some of me
in case I'll be resting there?

Will you venture into
the airy spaces of the kitchen
with a damp cloth
and mop the dust
in between and around
so that all of me
can be in one
as you pack me away
from your life,
in the marked space
of the graveyard
of relationships.

Published with permission from Makhosazana Xaba. Posted 13 April 2005.