Some poems whisper. This one clenches its truth in a fist—and dares you to feel what it won’t say aloud.
Poem Holding Its Heart in One Fist
Jane Hirshfield
Each pebble in this world keeps
its own counsel.
Certain words–these, for instance–
may be keeping a pronoun hidden.
Perhaps the lover’s you
or the solipsist’s I.
Perhaps the philosopher’s willowy it.
The concealment plainly delights.
Even a desk will gather
its clutch of secret, half-crumpled papers,
eased slowly, over years,
behind the backs of drawers.
Olives adrift in the altering brine-bath
etch onto their innermost pits
a few furrowed salts that will never be found by the tongue.
Yet even with so much withheld,
so much unspoken,
potatoes are cooked with butter and parsley,
and buttons affixed to their sweater.
Invited guests arrive, then dutifully leave.
And this poem, afterward, washes its breasts
with soap and trembling hands, disguising nothing.
❓ Reflective Questions for Readers:
- What emotions do you feel the poem is holding back—and why do you think it chooses not to reveal them directly?
- When in your own life have you had to hold your heart “in one fist”?
- How does the poem’s quietness amplify its emotional power?
💔 Poignant Reflection:
Some truths are too tender to unfold. Hirshfield’s poem doesn’t spill its sorrow—it contains it, shapes it, and dares us to look closer. In a world obsessed with noise and disclosure, this poem reminds us: real strength sometimes lies in the restraint, in the soft, trembling hand that holds pain—not to hide it, but to honor its weight.
