epithelia

December 10, 2011

epithelia

my hands, you could never be strangers –

more familiar are you to me

than the beating of my own heart.

rough as burlap or smooth as eggshells,

how is it that your calloused palms spell out fate

when every day you work to carve out

a future of your own? 

you might open like lotus blossoms

to hold another hand, or

a gun, or

the world as you would a child.

every wrinkle and crease of yours

tells a history I can only dream

of remembering, but then,

quick and wise as you are, your pale

half-moons fumble in the cold

not with ancient questions

of right and wrong, but only

black buttons

and ruby scarves.

when the night sky

is just an inky reflection of earth,

you reach up to send ripples

through all of the stars;

the few golden leaves left

on the late-autumn trees

are planets on an infant’s mobile, suspended

just above the cradle,

and when you set them in motion,

each independent part spins

in harmony with all the rest.

the heavens go round and round;

the newborn falls fast asleep.