“Your hands”
A friend remarks
“That’s not good”
Looking down at them
I’m surprised to see
They’re grayish-purple
Like a dusky sky
The searing summer sun
melting slowly
Into the shaded swath
of thin ragged horizon
Like a faded stain of dye
Receding with each wash
Yet seemingly never
To say a complete goodbye
Like the color of a naughty tongue
soured by its own distastefulness
that water won’t quite sweep away
bit by its own bitterness
for words it once slung
“Eh. They’re fine”
I say
But I cross my arms
Tucking my hands
My small
veined
gaunt
stained
purple hands
Out of sight
And out
from the baring light
of day