Bend as Would a God

::Raise the dead with a fingertip::

Caress your lover. Collect sweat

in your palm's dry mouth. See

if you don't make mud.

::Chronology: the clock face of an open hand

Events therein determine our meaning::

           A broken finger has been taught

the distance between live and exist.

::Creation is a dying art::

An old carpenter builds

a chair, the sight of which

makes him weep.

Does everything we build

commence spillage? Commune

with memory?

::Death's hand is a keyless gate of joints::

Your mother

slapped your brother.

Her hand, a furious lover,

discovered something chthonic

in his jaws, less hollow

than itself.

::Branches are elongated phalanges::

           A cypress tree's death.

           Leaves caught in the sprawling hand

of a spider's web.

::Nature sharpens her blade on stones of death::

::Blood—warmest finale::

A boy falls

out of a handstand

unaware of the body's desire

to spill his bloody smile,

his mouth wet with heat.

::Our bodies are salt

dissolving bit by bit as we mourn::

::How to gather prayer::

Light a stick of incense.

Allow what has burned

to land in your palm.

Rub it between both hands.

The sound you make is a psalm.

::We unknowingly walk the length of dirges::

           Mama's hands peel. Dead

           cells glide onto the cold floor.

A hush of dust. Ash.

::Palm lines lead to endings flowing

infinitely toward life and death::

Star of fable.

Each line a daybreak,

a nightfall,

a season stalled

in the body.

::Possibility is calcareous

Bend it as would a god::

Take one hand.

Curve your fingers.

Recline the thumb.

You have aligned the stars,

anthologized your life

in a decorative bowl

of bone.