For J. I - a poem

Updated: Apr 7



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.


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