against hands

.



.









Palms, damp like the surface
of contemptuous stones
on the steaming, still riverbank;

Fingers—knuckles—
like aching hills of a burned homeland,
often bloody and almost sharp;

Nails clipped short, cracked and unclean;
Thick wrists.


Your two hands—

My life’s first scale,
weighing the fear against the need,
a life of the flesh,
my resignation against
the truth of the next world.
The shine of the sea against
the glass in my eyes. As if you were God
and justice only a whim.
The imbalance—
the weight—





.