|Jul/Aug 2003 • Poetry|
Green lines my skin beneath
its golden sheen, faint, but clear,
streaking from my arm's creamy
underbelly to disappear beneath
knuckles. Your skin is crepe ivory,
but the lines run the same, elegantly
veined like the marble in the church
you taught me to live for.
Heavy. Christ's burden—
yours and now mine
A logical inheritance:
your hands, your faith,
both inescapable so that you
are in me, a physical fuse.
A single nail through our two hands.