My son discovered his hand this morning,
It’s not like it wasn’t there before,
It was.
Hitting him in the face while he slept,
It kept poking his eye,
A fleshy spider in the way and he didn’t know why.
Swaddled in a straight jacket we tried to contain it,
To restrain it,
From reflexes that perplexed
But this morning he discovered it.
He realised it was his,
Attached to his body,
His.
His to control,
He pushes it through the space in front of him
A miniature superman, tearing through blue skies
His eyes watch it with wonder,
Amazement,
Tightly clenched as if clutching sequins that have spilt on the floor,
He spins it in the air, opening it occasionally to reveal his shiny new palm,
He looks at his cocktail sausage fingers in awe,
His eyes are alight with admiration for this new plaything he has found,
aglow with possibility, power,
My son discovered his hand this morning,
He was mesmerised by its grip
If only we all looked at our hands in the same way,
Each day,
As if we’ve just discovered them,
As if they’ve just appeared,
Thinking carefully about what to do with them next.
