these are my hands

a continent of a blister                      a thumb sucked until the fifth grade.

passed now shiny, rose

petal skin tight over the

ligaments.

a flap of dermis peeling            a pointer finger used in newfound command.

back over the joint,

as if it were a banana,

ready to be eaten.

a blood red patch of new                a middle finger used against deserving.

skin just greased up with

beeswax and coconut oil,

sweetness slick.

a desert of flaking skin,           a ring finger encircled with my mother’s ring.

white and dry; could

even be collected to make

the perfect snow globe.

a cracked joint covered           a pinky finger promised to those around me.

with flicks of sepia each

ripe for my

picking.

–Elizabeth Lacey

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2 thoughts on “these are my hands

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