Ode To My Wrists My wrists tiny glass brittle bones broken, shattered when I slipped and fell. My wrists hung on a Chinese finger trap with weights pulling them to realign in the ER. My wrists “Will I be able to play piano again?” I ask the doctor, even though my wrist’s fingers hadn’t touched the dusty keys in over a year, My wrists repaired with metal plates by a surgeon three days later, held together with pins and plates forever. My wrists trapped in their bandaged wrapped cocoons, waiting for the fluttering wing fingers to emerge. My wrists unable to turn pages of a book or write a poem or text a friend or caress the fluffy fur of my cat.. My wrists finally released, spreading their fingers outside their cocoons, covered in scars of remembrance and gratitude. My wrists lay their fingers on the piano keys and begin to play the notes through my whole body as I joyfully weep in prayer of swollen pain. My wrists caress/console/carry/captivate/pen/pages/poems/ play/piano/pray/fingers/feeling/fluttering/ Finally Flying.
Holding a BFA from the University of Texas, Lisa Molina has taught high school English and theatre, and served as Associate Publisher of Austin Family Magazine. Molina now works with students with special needs. Her poetry can be found in Trouvaille Review, Beyond Words Magazine, Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review with poems soon to be featured in The Peeking Cat and Silver Birch Press. She lives in Austin, Texas.
Amethyst Review 
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