Poem by Linda Leedy Schneider

My Hands Speak After 25 Years Paris was served on a fresh platewith honey on the side,and I took its hand.My left hand says this is true.I call my right, the one that thoughtwe should have married the doctor.It touches my hair as the phone rings.“Why haven’t you called?”my husband of twenty-five years asks.My right hand cups my right breast,the one that always tightens first.The one my husband