Hands

 

They open the casket

and I ask if I can hold your hand

a callused time capsule 

of every choice you’ve ever made,

particles clinging from the skin you last caressed, 

hairs on the back moving under the fans –

the only part of you that is. 

I can’t,

hold your hand that is,

so I am left to ponder your life line.

iI I would have known this date 

if I knew to read the crevice of your palm.