Hands
Vincent Miller

When the room fills with steam from

the bath that she’s left running,

his handprints materialize, rise from

the fogging glass. A late-night effort,

no doubt, those many months ago,

to open the window, to let in some air.

Near the end the apartment was always

too stuffy, his breathing too labored,

his poisoned lungs struggling

with the thickness of New York.

She bites a calloused knuckle on one thumb

and watches his palm emerge from the steam.

The bath will run over soon, that much she knows.

But she sits and stares, transfixed by his fingers,

each outline firm and strong, pressed against

the whitening glass. No sign, from where

she’s sitting, of the slightest problem,

no weakness to be found, no reason to be afraid.