I survived. Could see my hand but

knew it was not my hand – wore


(My hand rain.

My hand pour.)


the same skateboard scars, gold ring sucked

to my finger and yellow tarred tips.


(My hand lifted, held.

My hand folded.)


You held it. I felt nothing

and let it drape dead. Waiting


(My hand ran.)


for my hand to return as mine

so you would return as you.



First published in ‘Where Rockets Burn Through’ from Penned in the Margins, November 2012