read her hands

Posted: October 17, 2014 in Media

Standing in a doorway — anywhere

Read her hands
interpret out loud the writing quiet of them
Palms full of spring
chopped onions garlic bleach
middle fingernail ragged
worrying after you
Number 46 polish (coral lust) chipped, fading the one night out
Finger spit wash chocolate from the corner
of your hungry mouth
Red knuckles dishwater damp rub her father’s broken feet with peppermint lotion

He will never know. You will never know the midnight tracing
the sleeping horizon of your young forehead
The hovering silence
A clipped wing waving from behind a screen door
at backs turning, walking away.
Washing wiping tearing pulling brushing bathing
Holding holding holding           Holding
The growing and the dying
Mending heeding healing stealing
Bits of grace by the cupful
Like water, you can drink clean the taste

September tomatoes warm with morning sun on the tips of them
Places sacred where they go
For the relief of them
3 am fingers stroke the length of him
Wield the spine flaming wet of rest less hands over him
Early morning coffee for him
Fingers threading needles and mistakes patch her day
carrying bags of office clocks up the tired narrow stairs
The cigarette burning between her fingers at a window sill,
contemplating, behind a locked bathroom door

Making bread with them
Kneading dough with the heels of them
The nourishment of them
Flour etched into the lines between the lines
The lines that some cannot fathom how much they can hold
Can never hold again
Let go receive forgive give back
The angry fists that pound against the kitchen air to breath
To wipe away with the backs of them, her eyes before you see
Follow the lines of her hands
Follow the lines of brightly cornered rooms
Well–tucked unmade beds, enter
And tell me her.

Standing in a doorway — anywhere


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