When Mother nor Time Stands Still
written by: PJ Temple
Young hands hold anger, weathered hands can’t grasp
the same contorted hand once etched fingerprints onto a child’s face, during sermons
falling soft hard rain
the same strong hands, smashed and molded a – maybe could’ve been a piece of art – heart
into a boulder the shape of shame
the same hand, lame under tube lights, lying beside a shrunken frame
the same hand I often clocked, watching its stillness
like time ticking, hoping this once that it would strike, again
PJ’s a psychologist who specializes in trauma. She’s also author of the memoir, Where the Tiger Dwells (SJF Literary) and Essays of Night and Daylight, on movement through kaleidoscopes of identity. PJ’s work can be found in The Broken Spine, Write City Magazine, Riksha Magazine, Southern Poverty Law Center and elsewhere. She shared a TEDx talk on having conversations about inequity and enjoys creating space for people to share their stories. She is also a guitar goddess but only in the eyes of her dog, Marley.
Latest posts by PJ Temple (see all)
- When Mother nor Time Stands Still - February 23, 2026
