For J. I

I would fill pages for your hands,

            for your lead-lined fingers,

for the open wounds on your open palms.

I would sing ballads for your hands,

            for your kind fingertips,

for your open palms on my open thighs.

I would mold sculptures for your hands,

            for your calluses and your one bird knuckle.

A cigarette burn on the paleness of your wrist.

A thin white scar on your thumb from a knife.

You say you can’t do card tricks anymore,

but I know you are still capable of magic.