Two Hands

I’ve had major writer’s block lately. Alas, I found a half done poem and finished it. Enjoy!


Two hands attached to different bodies capture my mind’s attention. The vast differences yet striking similarities are unsettling. The first, whose hands are callused, are rough to the touch. As my finger traces over each calloused ridge on the palm, my mind sprints through a serious of white-hot flashbacks in quick succession. Each more intense than the last. I exhale with gusto. As if to feel each




in staccato fashion. A punch spews onyx to my eyes. A slap leaves a thick handprint of crimson on my cheek. Sullied extremities create a unique splotched pattern on the entire canvas that is my person.

The body forgets these splatters of pain. The mind does not.

Sitting in a cafe munching a salad, a kick sprays indigo.

The Romaine has lost its flavour.

Paint flavoured salad is disgusting at best.

As if in two different worlds is the stark contrast of the second hand to the first. Those hands are smooth to the touch. They are moisturized and sun kissed by kindness. My cheeks are caressed with understanding. The thought of those hands curl the corners of my mouth upward. The rest of my lips follow without prompting.

My fingers follow downwards and trace the lines on the palm. Again. Flashback. Yet these are familial

lines of green.



Laughter of children.

No longer staccato, these lines linger on the mind as Georgia does.


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