to hold, to care—the very first embrace.

My hand is tough and calloused from the weight

of labor, tattoos faded from the constant 

unearthing of new skin; softness sacrificed

for utility. I see cracked skin and blisters,

distorted knuckles and bleeding fingers. 

I feel the indent of a pencil, phantom

pressure spawning words. But yours—I feel the ghost

of something new—a flower, a face; I

press my hand into a swirling mirror,

slick with condensation and dew. I see 

my great grandmother. I see carved wood,

the slice of a knife, the pressure of a thumb—

forged of flowery veins and inked blood.