Hands

Eager and taunting,
flaunted to the wind
in Easter.

Bold and bloated
with gin; when it rains,
scratching at doors in the dark,
time and time again.

Scarred:
paper-cuts matter when they
never go away.

The damp sting of palm
when it matters the most.

It’s okay;
we’ll shake it off and
wave as we walk away.

There’s an endless line of
praying, braying ghosts
we must usher aside,
when we crack our knuckles and transcend,
in awe of the others in this holy trinity.

#365DaysOfPoetry

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