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.
