My Left Hand Soaked In Oil

My left hand 
soaked in oil:

those are the first words
I heard this morning,
if you can call 
how they came to me
“hearing.”

It’s not
a true descriptor, but
as close as I can get 
to how the words come
so I call that hearing 
and hearing it is,

much as my left hand
feels dry with no apparent
oil upon it yet I trust
what I’ve heard about this,
I don’t argue when I hear
words this way: clearly,

my left hand’s soaked
in oil.  Up to me

to figure out if perhaps
it is magic oil
I can’t see or feel
that shines in darkness,  
or maybe a social oil that
gets on me from others
and later ignites
when I try to reach out,
or in some way a deep soul oil
that seeps out of me and
covers me wrist to fingertips
and it’s only on my left hand
to reveal to me once again
what I forget and forget:
how hard it is to hold fast
to what is closest to my heart.

My left hand soaked in oil,
shining at dawn. Perhaps
all it means is that oil

is a decoration, a highlight
reminding me to celebrate
my weakest parts, even as
I write this all down 
with my right hand.

If you are a bear for truth
and have read this far, tell me 
what you think it means 

for it seems that all I know
has become slippery,
falling again and again
out of my grasp

no matter how many times
and how tenderly
I listen to the words
I hear upon waking,

no matter how faithful I am
to the words.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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