Weeping, I contemplate divinity.

Erect a temple to hands.

No statue of interlocking fingers, no

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Bodhisattva carved in calm repose—

My hands are crueler than that.

Make it a church of cupped cheeks

And creaking fists. An altar of aching

Bones and sundered skin, a shrine

Of regret and repentance.

My hands are a confessional.

Old and haggard things,

Let these weary hands rest.