Poem: Arthritis by Carol Moldaw

 “Save your hands,” my mother says,

seeing me untwist a jar’s tight cap—

just the way she used to tell me

not to let boys fool around, or feel

my breasts: “keep them fresh

for marriage,” as if they were a pair

of actual fruit. I scoffed

to think they could bruise, scuff,

soften, rot, wither. I look down now

at my knuckly thumbs, my index finger

permanently askew in the same classic

crook as hers, called a swan’s neck,

as if snapped, it’s that pronounced.

Even as I type, wondering how long

I’ll be able to—each joint in my left hand

needing to be hoisted, prodded, into place,

one knuckle like a clock’s dial clicking

as it’s turned to open, bend or unbend.

I balk at the idea that we can overuse

ourselves, must parcel out and pace

our energies so as not to run out of any

necessary component while still alive—

the definition of “necessary” necessarily

suffering change over time.

The only certainty is uncertainty, I thought

I knew, so ignored whatever she said

about boys and sex: her version of

a story never mine. It made me laugh,

the way she made up traditions, that we

didn’t kiss boys until a certain age, we

didn’t fool around. What we? What part of me

was she? No part I could put my finger on.

How odd, then, one day, to find her

half-napping in her room, talking first

to herself and then to me, about a boy

she used to know, her friend’s brother,

who she kissed, she said, just because

he wanted her to. “Now why would I do that,”

she mused, distraught anew and freshly

stung by the self-betrayal. So much

I still want to do with my hands—

type, play, cook, caress, swipe, re-trace.