The Flat of the Hand It was just the flat of the hand of Death. —James Agee in A Death in the Family   The flat hand picks no flower, it can’t close upon another. The flat hand holds no pen, will no full breast discover.   The flat hand fails the piano, gives only a half-hearted clap. Like Oliver’s begs for more, offers itself up to the strap.   Death is its slap in the face, no welt left on bloodless skin. Just once. The flat of the hand. No need to remind us again.     Plums  …