And for a moment my fingertips
Have lost their memories--
My own skin is a foreign entity--
A stranger to be known and hushed, the sensations of
Lightest and softest magnolia blossom of touch
Against skin-- with lights that grow and diminish together.
Hands that move, that belong to me and do what I say,
With nailpolish chipped and cracked like mine...
But these fingers are new.
They are someone else’s hands,
A woman that I don’t know.
Hands that move fluid like black ink
On paper, lifting and twirling in
Loops of words--
Fragments.
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