Her Hands

Illustration by Rafal Olbinski

Her hands like two slim angels folded in grace under her chin, she could take down buildings with those hands, so strong. Instead she opens the eyes of my palms, one at a time, they flutter into openness beneath her hands. She pulls wings into being at my ankles and leaves the rest of my surprised body thrumming with new open-ended connections, to not just myself but the universe as well. I am a quill, feathered and dipped in blackest ink and I am my own script overflowing, always unscrolling, sheet. I let her read the part where she comes in, where the letters lift off of the page to float, ephemeral and carrying the most beautiful ghosts, even at the moment they were scribed. — Annette Marie Smith