Take my hand, darling;

though callused,

it has its share of tales.

My hand has been a river,

a resevoir, a dam. The tears

have flowed through my fingers.

My hand has been a stopper,

a cauldron, a trap. Death

has fallen before my limb.

My hand has been a mother,

a heart-beat, a womb. It has

given life and nurtured.

My hand has been a pyre,

a bonfire, a furnace. I’ve palmed

sweltering heart and a burning heart.

My hand has been a cage,

a burrow, a fence. It has

trapped its share of beasts.

My hand has been a tomb,

a coffin, a sepulchre. I can

recall the litany of disease.

Today, my hand will be

a straightjacket

for the love-crazed;

a bracer

to brace your hand;

a chest

to keep your hand

(and heart)

in mine.