Succession

Geoffrey Rubin
Published June 7, 2020

Three pairs of hands

Similar in size

Singular in structure 

Identical in purpose

Across three ages

From my grandfather

    to my father

      to me

Different doctors

Share a name and anatomy

But with idiosyncrasy

Blue veins creep 

Down cool edges

Soft and gentle 

Skeletal interlocks

The thenar bulge

Melts with color change

From fresh flesh-pink 

To worn amber-brown 

Despite ringing 102 springs

Sam’s nails glisten

Not a ramshackle set 

They wind back the gears of memory—

A small Jersey village 

Country doc’s palm

Enwraps the rough 

Black medical leather

Knuckles rap 

Sinewy tendons enter 

For the good of a dying teacher

He hears a hurricane of bacteria

And an electric current of silence

As vivid as the arms of death 

On his wet gold timepiece

Which presses in present day

Into my father’s fingers

And is then encircled 

Around my wrist

Our hands

Right then left

Dive downward

Absorbed by sterile gloves

Without tremor or tremble

With delicate movements

We suture the skin together.

Editor's Commentary