my hands are canyons with rifts, ridges, cracks
snaking through peninsulas of fat
like land deposits
the truth of time is pressed on every bulge and wrinkle
blue veins, like rivers, criss-cross the barren landscape
of my metacarpals
my palms, burdened with well-worn trails,
are a fortune teller’s dream
there’s poetry in these old hands, in the storm
of skin and bone that’s held a thousand possibilities
and my babies too, and wiped their tears
and cracked my knuckles, my cut-cookie palms
wave goodbye and goodbye and goodbye
I wonder, what’s the last thing my hands will touch?
fingers gnarled, skin withered
the first tools of my chosen trade
I will discard them, eventually
as easily as the rest of me
Month: December 2018
Second Daughter
Born fully feathered, an old soul
a foundling that found us
you came to stay
as if you knew we’d need you
The days are bearable because of you
You carry my befores and afters –
It’s your burden, to hold that part of me
I’m sorry
I regret all the things I couldn’t fix
The world takes everything
except the art and sadness in your eyes
and your wild heart, full of romance
and mischief – Loki, Bacchus, Trickster
all vie to live within you
I’ll never stop wanting to protect you
You’re wise enough to wear the mask of fool
when, really, you’re the hanged man
The world wants to mold you
turn you into something replicated, two dimensional
Fight it
Do you feel folded, an origami girl?
A doll in a chain of paper?
Fight it
May you never be at the mercy
of the hand that holds the scissors