Sarah’s Hands

Sarah’s hands were a piece
of uncooked meat;
I turned their raw over in my own
– their pale – their bloody.
What was left of her nails, of their
polish – pink – like they’d never seen battle,
or had ever been held as tenderly
as they deserved.
“Sarah, what did you do?”
– but Sarah only smiled that strange smile,
the one that made it look like living tasted bad,
but she didn’t want to offend –
like this was a dinner party  and the chicken
they were serving was as raw
as her chewed up hands.
I held them.
“Sarah, what did you do?”
– but Sarah only laughed
until the laughter made her jaw crack.
It was the kind of laugh
I wanted to push back into her mouth;
the kind you use when there are
no tears left for sadness.
“I punched the craters in the moon,” she told me
quietly – pupils dark like the dead spot
of a diamond.
Her blue eyes shining.
“I used my fists.
I punched the craters in the moon.
Now he won’t be able to see
anyone but me
when he looks up there.”
Sarah’s hands were just like my own,
only braver
– bleeding and weeping –
Sarah’s hands were everything.

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