the softest of palms

Avian

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Sat Mar 21, 2026 12:18 am

Avian says... · Sat Mar 21, 2026 12:18 am

i am told i am gentle---a woman
with the softest of palms, cradled
by callous hands that have become an
enclosure. i sit, docile, waiting
for the next guiding motion.

~napo 2026
~napo 2025: how rotten this inheritance

Last edited by Avian on Sat Mar 21, 2026 12:20 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Avian

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Sat Mar 21, 2026 12:20 am

Avian says... · Sat Mar 21, 2026 12:20 am

01. (4/01/26) a restless sort of yearning
02. (4/02/26) head-strong and stubborn as i try to be
03. (4/03/26) dishwater
04. (4/04/26) shame buried in prayer-clasped hands
05. (4/05/26) here i sit,
06. (4/06/26) & so it is spring
07. (4/07/26) these words will split my teeth
08. (4/10/26) still beneath my tongue
09.
10.
11.

Last edited by Avian on Sat Apr 11, 2026 6:28 pm, edited 6 times in total.

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deleted48

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Wed Apr 01, 2026 5:42 am

deleted48 says... · Wed Apr 01, 2026 5:42 am

Spoiler

<3 love the title of this, like the idea of womanhood seen through hands / the juxtaposition of softness vs. "callousness" of sorts. I can't wait to see what poetry you write this month!

In a shadow there is the blessing of a shadow.
— Kuki Shūzō

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Avian

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Thu Apr 02, 2026 4:32 am

Avian says... · Thu Apr 02, 2026 4:32 am

a restless sort of yearning (4/1/26)

i yearn for soft palms,
sometimes. and i say sometimes
like i don't mean all the time, like
i don't mean i want someone else
to cradle me whilst i sit in lethargy,
all curled limbs and slack-jawed.

i preach autonomy until
things get hard; the tooth
on the nail, rusted and imminent.

do you ever think, that, just once,
it might be nice to revert back to
childhood---the dew on the grass,
the grass on our feet, running and
saying we're wild horses, and mom
calls us in for dinner.

i think that, sometimes.
that it might be nice to be held. that
the softest of palms would cradle me
to her chest, tell me i'm cherished
and kiss my jaw, tender. and i can
rest, just along the groove of her thumb,
and she will be something soft, like a mother.

it is only now that i am guided
by my own hand, callous and yet
to be worn by the grit in the earth.
and every once in a while, i'll see
a pinprick of dew-soaked grass,
peeking at me from a place my
callused hands cannot reach;
restless.

Last edited by Avian on Fri Apr 03, 2026 3:48 am, edited 1 time in total.

it is always another hand that guides me.

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Avian

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Fri Apr 03, 2026 3:35 am

Avian says... · Fri Apr 03, 2026 3:35 am

head-strong and stubborn as i try to be (4/2/26)

i like to think myself head-strong and stubborn---
the bull in the pasture, hooves hard on the ground.
i say i am my own, not tethered to a lead
or guided by some stable hand.

but just as easily, i follow the herd when
the dog nips my ankles; just as easy, i dig
my horns into the ground at the slightest pressure,
every sharp angle buried beneath the dirt.

i am told i am soft like this; maybe i will become
a gardener instead, and maybe these buried edges
will bloom into something weightier.

i place my palms against the dirt,
and i hope that when i open my eyes,
i might find a pair of unmoving hooves there instead.

Last edited by Avian on Fri Apr 03, 2026 9:59 pm, edited 1 time in total.

it is always another hand that guides me.

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Calamity

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Fri Apr 03, 2026 4:53 am

Calamity says... · Fri Apr 03, 2026 4:53 am

Spoiler

i place my palms against the dirt,
and i hope that when i open my eyes,
i might find a pair of unmoving hooves there instead.

I love the juxtaposition of hooves / hands, really ties back to your thread theme! Womanhood and specifically stubbornness, head-strong, "hardness" is often complex and seen as undesirable through the male gaze, but I like how it is reframed in these poems. Your writing is so cohesive and polished in style, good luck this NaPo!

she/her

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Avian

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Fri Apr 03, 2026 9:16 pm

Avian says... · Fri Apr 03, 2026 9:16 pm

dishwater (4/3/26)

once, when i was young, i burned myself
on the water in the sink—then i watched
my mother dip her hands into the same
water to wash the dishes, my father lost
somewhere in the house.

i used to help her rinse the dishes, and i
remember when that became a chore, too,
when i wanted to be like dad, who sat, reclined,
in the living room.

my mother still comes home from work to
be the nurturer she’s always been; feed the kids,
the husband, clean the house, go to bed early.
it’s funny—i’ve started to feel that same guilt she’d
always muttered about when i see her alone
in the kitchen. for the first time, i hope i grow up
to be nothing like them.

it is always another hand that guides me.

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Avian

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Sun Apr 05, 2026 4:32 am

Avian says... · Sun Apr 05, 2026 4:32 am

shame buried in prayer-clasped hands (4/4/26)

& maybe tomorrow i will be kinder to myself,
and maybe tomorrow i will wash my hands &
the water will come back gray & i will feel
a respite; clean slate, made new.

i'll pray to a god i'm angry at & bow
my head with the congregation, hands clasped
tight behind my back like i have shame to hide,
because i have shame to hide.

it is always another hand that guides me.

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AlexWrites

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Sun Apr 05, 2026 9:35 am

AlexWrites says... · Sun Apr 05, 2026 9:35 am

Spoiler

Love the idea, how subtly you convey it in these poems!

I. a restless sort of yearning

So the speaker craves sort hands and ultimately finds comfort in her own. Incredibly fitting and the message is beautiful <3

II. head-strong and stubborn as i try to be

My favourite work from the thread until now, for sure. The title seems agressive for the delicate theme of the thread, but this was surprisingly the most relevant poetry in this collection. Not bowing to other's wishes, but life's hardships and conformity. Saddening but poetic =)

my horns into the ground at the slightest pressure

This looks like a metaphor for the behaviour of ostriches. If the overlap was indeed intentional, the move was so ingenious!

III. dishwater

A spoiled father, a complaining mother and a kid tired of it- absolutely perfect..

IV. shame buried in prayer-clasped hands

and maybe tomorrow i will wash my hands &
the water will come back gray & i will feel
a respite; clean slate, made new

Imagery of dirty water to depict the latent cleaning of soul- how very peaceful.

i'll pray to a god i'm angry at & bow
because i have shame to hide.

Love the complex dynamic here. The narrator's sins don't excuse why she's angry at God, such a strong impactful statement here..

This is actually the first thread I've read and will be following. Excited to see what more you come up with!

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Avian

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Mon Apr 06, 2026 3:09 am

Avian says... · Mon Apr 06, 2026 3:09 am

here i sit, (4/5/26)

restless; imminent; the rumble & buzz where
an apple rolls down my throat---thick,

unable to pass & its blood under my chin,
a spreading like the pale indentation of fingers;

my hair as a thread, two threads, pressed
through a needle & pulled taut,

the tremor of my palms, another threading,
sewn thin; & i finally say, "i am tired," and i do not

sleep, a toil before the inevitable unravelling,
hands splayed wide against damp soil,

the earth split & crumbling with a stampede
not yet passed, hooves sharp against my sides,

& it passes, a swelling---my tongue, my feet;
so here i sit, the mottled crinkle of paper,

opened again. rattled, there is another swelling---
a breath, not a washing. here, i sit, trembling; subdued.

Spoiler

i'm amidst reading Ocean Vuong's Night Sky With Exit Wounds (which was recommended to me by @lalalucky), which heavily inspired this poem---i love what he does with imagery, how he says things without saying things. i tried to incorporate that level of imagery here. i've always been looking for ways to do just that. i love poems that rely on imagery and metaphor. and so the journey begins.

it is always another hand that guides me.

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lalalucky

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Mon Apr 06, 2026 10:51 am

lalalucky says... · Mon Apr 06, 2026 10:51 am

Spoiler

ah!! i'm flattered you took the recommendation to heart, and i'm glad you seem to be liking it! i'm also very happy to hear that it incited a journey for you to follow, and so i will wish you to have fun continuing on incorporating more imagery & metaphors in your work!

the beginning starting out so intensely, though not loud, while the ending is more quiet and brings relief-- being a journey we follow through our senses, is wonderful. this "blood" on the chin fascinates me as a description considering it was reminiscent of the fact apples has their own wax coating that can "bleed"! these transitions here: "the rumble & buzz where an apple rolls down my throat---thick, / unable to pass & its blood under my chin" and "the mottled crinkle of paper, / opened again" has definitely got to be my favorite ones - especially the ending one, as it just reveals itself to you just as the body is being opened!

i just have to say, goodness, the imagery in this poem is just splendid!! there were so much variety in the metaphors & imagery throughout the poem that kept me very engaged due to how beautifully written they are, and how it has an uncomfortable but soft grip on you. like it wants you to be a witness, but also feel everything. throughout the poem, i felt as though the speaker has their own body being rejected--not even just by their own conscious behaviors, but by their own body (and/or brain) as well. its something to tolerate--which is very reminiscent of depression/mental health issues and/or chronic pain. it leaves you trapped, open again, but the troubling sense that you will be trapped again leaves a bitter taste even in the relief in the ending. which is an uncomfortable feeling that this writing portrays incredibly!!

this was a very interesting read from you. very enjoyable--just as your other works has been enjoyable to follow--while being different! i've been loving all of these works!!

sunny

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Avian

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Mon Apr 06, 2026 8:04 pm

Avian says... · Mon Apr 06, 2026 8:04 pm

& so it is spring (4/6/26)

it’s spring now & i bloom
into tulips, all soft petals
& delicacy; my chest
an open casket, tender
to the touch, only this time
there is no funeral.

bury me in fertile soil; watch
as i stretch & spread for the sun—
a lost child to her mother, & watch
as she bleeds into a revitalized
heartbeat. i am all warm body
beneath a shell of shedding skin.

every winter, i think it is the
same thing that kills me,
and every spring, i remember
the saturated warmth of the sun’s lips.

it is always another hand that guides me.

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Avian

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Wed Apr 08, 2026 4:57 am

Avian says... · Wed Apr 08, 2026 4:57 am

these words will split my teeth (4/7/26)

one day these words will split my teeth,
and i will decay within them.

(i've never really been afraid of death,
but i suppose i've always hoped i might
outlive my body; everything i've ever
written plastered to the ground---
indissoluble. i think, sometimes,
it might be nice to be remembered
as something lasting, if only for a little while.)

it is always another hand that guides me.

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Meshugenah

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Wed Apr 08, 2026 5:16 am

Meshugenah says... · Wed Apr 08, 2026 5:16 am

Spoiler

i've always hoped i might
outlive my body

Oooh, this. Yes.

***Under the Responsibility of S.P.E.W.***
(Sadistic Perplexion of Everyone's Wits)

Medieval Lit! Come here to find out who Chaucer plagiarized and translated - and why and how it worked in the late 1300s.

I <3 Rydia

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Avian

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Points 994

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Sat Apr 11, 2026 3:25 am

Avian says... · Sat Apr 11, 2026 3:25 am

still beneath my tongue (4/10/26)

i like to think god loved me,
once, maybe when i was a younger child
who loved just as blindly.

there i was, palms open and a prayer
hidden beneath my tongue---begging
for a sacrifice. "there you are."

religion is the honey pot i dip into
endlessly; what sticks to my skin
in rivulets, still, after winter sets in.

i come back to eden clothed,
no god in sight, only a dead tree
planted fruitlessly in the ground.

“there you are.”

here i am, some voice falling upon
some ears, thorn-thick skin trying
to root itself in infertile ground.

call me by "beloved," i've forgotten how to run.

it is always another hand that guides me.

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