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Andie Golligher-Strange

My father worked

in a scrap yard

from 8 to 5.

I think of his hands.

Hands that knew cold.

Cold metal.

Cold weather.

Hands that reached

for a bottle

or for a Bible.

Grasp firm

on both.

His skin cracked at the knuckles

and his palms, calloused.

He’d rub my neck,

and they’d feel like


I bought him lotion

for his hands.

Oil based and alcohol free.

Healing powers he’d never know.

I see his aching hands,

opening and closing

around his last bottle.

Spring, 2017 Issue

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