I imagine the hands that molded me.
dust and red clay into
child, into partner.
brushed violent pink under cheekbones,
into veins and flesh.

paint like blood, like mothers blood,
beneath my nails,
between my fingers,
sweet and metallic and
soft as breath.

thrust me, as against rocks
into tides of men,
into touch.
the battered love of hands and mouths.
my body, home of wounds.

what do I owe to the cause of this
bruised tenderness?
to kiss the ruined skin of my palms—the gift—
a masterpiece of this artist
whose name I won't pronounce.

it is not just palms but
knees and chest and arms.
my lips too.
with this so tarnished mouth I do pray,
and consume.