Poems by Rose

The Last Hand

It came from Lucifer’s own furnace—

a blade first tempered under flame,

its iron black with something older

than any living hand could name.

The first edge drank from Hell itself,

then crossed from fire into blood;

what Lucifer had forged in darkness,

generations honed for harm.

No living hand could name the first

that learned to bear the hilt before.

Each hand that gripped it drew the edge

against another whetstone’s core.

Palm after palm became its sharpener,

each cruelty honing what came through—

not merely carrying the weapon,

but making Hell’s old edge feel new.

The rust grew thick along the steel,

yet still the blade could split the skin.

The Devil may have forged the iron;

human hands kept honing it.

The blade came clothed in gilded sheath,

bright enough to earn a bow—

gold burnished smooth by generations

who praised the gleam, not what lay below.

Its surface bore the names of honor,

duty, custom, blood, respect;

old violence beaten into ornament

until the hidden edge looked blessed.

They kissed the gold, ignored the stain,

buffed every blemish from the shell;

the sheath protected not the wounded,

but kept the blade concealed too well.

Then came the woman holding next,

her fingers closing round the blade—

flesh learning how to cradle fire,

how wounds can masquerade as faith.

She held until her palm went pale,

until the metal drank her red,

until the wound forgot to close

and silence learned to speak instead.

Whenever skin began to seal,

the edge returned, precise and thin.

What chance has flesh to heal at all

when steel keeps entering again?

And when her fingers opened last,

the weapon did not cool or cease.

The hands before still held the hilt;

they passed the sharpened edge to me.

So I received it like a rite—

the eldest always takes her turn.

I closed my fingers round the blade

and learned how quietly flesh can burn.

I held it when the heat climbed bone.

I held it while the steel cut through.

They kept the hilt within their hands;

I took the edge they handed through.

stay closed,

stay still,

stay useful,

call each blister something owed,

hide the blood beneath the sleeve,

carry what was never yours to hold.

Rust loosened deep into the wound

and worked its poison through my veins.

The wound no longer stayed a wound—

it learned my pulse, it learned my name.

Still I held on, not understanding

a blade need not be raised to kill;

rust can travel toward the heart

while the hand is holding still.

Then one night every scar spoke plainly,

and this was all it had to say:

A hand cannot remain a hand

if all it does is hold a blade.

There would be nothing left of me—

no palm to touch, no pulse to save,

only bone still clenched around

the thing they taught me to call brave.

So I let go.

It struck the ground

with less thunder than I had feared.

No heavens split. No mountains fell.

The ones I loved had not disappeared.

The flesh would close, but never clear

the map the metal burned behind.

Some scars survive beneath the skin;

some rust stays buried in the mind.

And still—I chose the scar.

I chose the hand that could remain.

Better marked by what I survived

than buried gripping that same blade.

At first, an empty hand felt wrong.

The quiet almost felt untrue.

I had been taught that love meant holding

whatever hurt was handed to you.

Then other hands appeared in time—

not bound to mine by vein or name.

They did not ask me for my scars.

They did not warm another flame.

They washed the rust from broken skin.

They bound what blood had left undone.

They taught my fingers other work:

to open, offer, touch, receive.

No weapon hidden in their palms.

No debt disguised as sacrifice.

No tally kept of what I gave.

No love that came attached to price.

And when the wound had finally closed,

I faced the weapon one last time.

For once, I reached not for the blade—

my fingers closed around the hilt.

I carried it to God’s own house

and plunged it into water blessed.

It hissed and spat; the hellfire died,

steam writhing from its iron chest.

I turned its point toward where it came

and hurled it down through ash and flame.

It struck at Lucifer’s own foot

and pinned him to the earth he claimed.

Let Hell keep what Hell fashioned.

Let that iron hold him there.

He will not cross the line I’ve drawn.

He will not come near me and mine.

My daughter will inherit my hand—

but she will never inherit the blade.