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My Hands (Amy)

My hands think for themselves
They trail down your hips
And fly up your spine
Becoming and blooming
Palms opening like mouths
Drinking in the tide of your brow

My fingers ache to talk to you
Circling in Sanskrit and Linear B
Incising and painting with nacre and indigo
Purling chains of lace

Embroidering torments of laments
They stalk your curves
Seeking that which sometimes rises when called
But cannot sustain inhabitance without blessings

They are aching to translate their ache
For all that is rising within you
Aching to prise your blood from your soil
They ache to hold it aloft
Your heart beating air into light