ManicWorld Magazine

I’m rubbing
my hands again —
some insect’s bitten me,
I think.
It itches.

It was a Dad thing,
the way he rubbed his hands —
absently, endlessly —
a flicker of routine
in a world unfastening.

I thought it was
repetitive behaviour
or just
old age.

It’s strangely
soothing
and disturbing.

Now I feel it
under my own skin:
that ritual,
that need
to soothe
something unseen.

I look down —
liver spots bloom
like small bruises.

My hands
have become his.

I rub
as if remembering