Hands
Flailing, fluttering
directing the scene,
emphasizing words,
building a vision in sign.
You stretch your arm
across the table and I
grab onto your hand,
smooth and soft,
pampered. Each nail
trim and clean.
The lines and creases
leading to the pond
in your palm, where
you pretend to spit to
form a reservoir, which
makes the story you're telling,
a joke, that lets me laugh
each time I hear it,
and I've heard it 100 times
in 28 years.
The touch remains alive,
though you're dead.
The softness, a memory.
The tenderness, a dimple on
my heart.
A movement, memorized
and registered in some private place.
When walking through life,
details are ignored,
but caught by the imagination
until needed.
I bend and bring your hand to my lips.
a male action, this woman has
used often, to express her love,
her gratitude for your love, of her.
The contact of our palms touching,
fingers intermingled, entwined,
united as we walk or sit; this action
will always define how deeply, one simple act,
can spell love,
and bring comfort, even though you're gone.
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