where fortunes press
small lines meet
like Horizon and Valley
we nest
here in my palm
heaped under the shadow
of round fingers
brightened by blood
the weight of fallen fate
parts skin
down to the muscles
where memory is sleeping
in hollow wells of tissue
remember our tenderness
as it continues
up river
up river
up river
across my lifted hand
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Hey, Erin, It's MLE. I am so relieved to hear that your pits are clean. No, but really--POETRY!!! whoo-hoo...those last lines are wonderful. And who was the Buddhist monk? I'll check with DR, but she's cleaning up the dark room right now and I'm not going near there!
ReplyDeleteHope you get better soon. Hey, did you talk this poem into your computer? How cool!