Blisters (draft) (11/02-04)

Maybe my palms blister,
but this woman has stigmata
in the center of her palms
looking like cherry-red bruises,
for which she must anoint herself.

After she spreads her hands
out for hours at a time,
hoping that the sun and air
dries away whatever ails her.
Hope plays a part in this repair.

My palms however sweat
so much I won’t shake hands,
and the creases in my palms
that cross and split like faults
seem indelible as orbits.

What sutures outlast surgery?
What stitches do surgery leave?
What configurations await
palm readers to interpret?
This is how my faults appear.

Praise no need for ointment
to rub and revive them
until they can smile,
with cheeky, pink complexion
like that of one who works
hardly using hands.

Creasing where the hand folds,
The palm is where shame hides
spare change is concealed
where handles are gripped,
for umbrellas or weapons.

An ointment suppresses
the wound in the center,
as if the palms could bleed,
stigmata that cannot clear,

too late to shed the marks
that have become our brand,
no sun can bleach away.