Poetry, July 2023 – Private Commission

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There is something in his hands
curled under practiced fingers
flowing through
the rivers of his palms;
Life lines, love lines,
each line a satiny,
cinnamon red.
A wondrous color.
It’s red only for him,
ripe with wanting
slick as oil, wet like wax
dripping thick in this
airless summer.
But it’s a candle inextinguishable;
The fire is always hungry,
like me.
Oh.
Like me.
I am something in his hands;
sunken low, skin deep.
And, I quite like it here
beneath the red, red clay
of these rivers.