Filling Spaces between Fingers

Creases of the Hand

Between the rivulets
of Lover's cracked embrace,
His face peers from the shadows of
the calloused wrinkles' trace.
And, flexing palm to close around
holes pierced for Kingdom's song,
His smile sighs your Silence--His breath
a whisper to: Belong.

(c) Kellie Parkinson December 18, 2008


"My hands are small, I know, but they're: not yours, they are my own."

.wrong.

the Listener re-writes that song and every other lyric referencing my supposed independence, my isolation, my self-sufficiency and says 'Grace, Child."

"Your hands," He says, "Are small, I know, but they're not yours: they are My Own."

Each time I gaze at the centers of my palms, they seem a stranger to my eyes. Even the history twitching in the fingertips feels foreign; the potential pulsing in their core comes from a source Outside myself.

So far. Outside. myself.