They were her hands,
Destined for pleasure.
Fingers tied knots
Ringed with gold,
And pointed the way
For growing old.
Palms held petals,
Bows, ribbons
And pages;
Wrists watched
The measured time
Of keys and games;
Wrapped packaged treasures,
Opened doors.
They were small
Determined hands,
Covered in flour
White skin
Powdering her face,
Inviting
Me in.
Hands held in supplication,
Joy and despair;
Hands in need
Of salvation.
Like leaves on
Autumn branches
That branches
Can't hold,
Her hands
Lost their grip,
Then closed
And fell cold.