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Palm Tree Hands

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the freckles on
her arms
lead up to her
shoulders,
and lick her face
like fire
leaving blemishes
like

constellations that
tell
intertwining
myths.
she tells me
her
heartbeat
keeps

slowing down,
and there will
eventually
come a point when it will
stop
and she will
die.

i tell her she won’t
die,
and she is not going
anywhere
as long as she is near
me,
except she’s already long
gone

by this point, and it’s
better
if i pretend i don’t see
that.

the scars on her
knees,
decorating her wiry
legs,
mimic the floral wall
paper
in my grandmother’s
kitchen,

and i smile as i trace
them
with my index
finger,
admiring the
contorted,
raised skin. she
ignores

me as i do this and i
can’t
help but wonder if it bothers
her.

the veins on the backs of
her
hands remind me of pumpkin
patches.
they all lead back to her heart: an
unorganized
web that perhaps
a

little spider
with a red star
on its back,
or an elderly
woman in a
rocking chair
wove.



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