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Each year winter takes my hands:
I imagine them, bundled off to become
A wreath to adorn the season’s front door.
My hands, red and crackled with eczema,
Nestle against a stranger’s hands,
Curled tight with tendonitis.
Raynaud’s colors the next pair over
(blue and purple, due to the cold)
While arthritis coils the next pair
Painfully inward, inward.
No shoveling snow for me,
Nor washing dishes,
Nor tugging off wool socks.
Maybe the steroid cream will work
This year; maybe not.

First appeared at Corporeal Lit Mag, December 2021

Jeana Jorgensen

FOXY FOLKORIST Studied folklore under Alan Dundes at the University of California, Berkeley, and went on to earn her PhD in folklore from Indiana University. She researches gender and sexuality in fairy...