My hands can recall the memory
of your hands, holding
as familiar as the turn
of a doorknob, a kitchen knife
clenched in a fist. When I unfetter,
you’ll find someone new to run
fingers over the framework
of your ribs, cradle your calcaneus,
read your scelestic liver and scrimshaw
with twinned palms: my coiling
tendons gone soft, wingspan of
my phalanx bones woven
to hold little birds in their nests.
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