To Wash My Hands

Hands cupped
into a bowl,
I know,

I know.

Hands cupped,
to try and hold it
all together

…the gone.

This catchment,
this basin,
this ocean,
holds detachment,
displacement – me
alone, as

a reflection
and a refutation
of the real

in the rippling sheen
and its undulating

– eternal motion.

I can see myself
in the water’s glimmer;

I must not forget
the story within,
etched in lines
and wrinkles,

but, I wish to be
done with this.

To wash my hands
I must open them.

Un-cupped, receding,
the water’s waves
soak into the earth,


for the forgotten
this rumination,
that I knew I was
no longer needing.

© CG Tenpenny, 2022.

Image by K. Murphy.

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