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What Her Hands Know
What Her Hands Know
She threads the trocar just beneath the rib, and empties out what death cannot keep still, and fills the hollow left with wax and skill, and smooths the tremor from his upper lip, and wires the jaw so no word more can slip, and keeps the cooling room exact and chill, a face composed enough to hold and fill a room with calm that grief cannot yet grip.
At night her palm finds her own restless skin, and waits to feel some proof she still can't keep— no measured wax, no wire pulled taut and thin enough to prove what's just begun to seep, just weight, just warmth, just something moving in the dark beneath her hand's one steady sweep.
What Her Hands Know
She puts the tool just under the rib, and takes out what death cannot keep still, and fills the empty space with wax and skill, and smooths the shaking from his upper lip, and wires the jaw so no more words can escape, and keeps the room at a precise coldness, a face calm enough to fill a room with peace that grief cannot yet grasp.
At night her hand finds her own restless skin, and waits to feel some proof she still can't keep— no measured wax, no wire pulled tight and thin enough to prove what's just begun to leak, just weight, just warmth, just something moving in the dark beneath her hand's one steady sweep.