hollow

our palms
the image of fossils, the feel of silenced earthquakes, the taste of tongues belonging to our grandmother over-and-over, the smell of shrine and flowers, of dried raindrops, of moments so impermanent even elephants remind us.

our palms
the warmth and cold of death, of humming reminders of prayer and calling. It is a calla-lilly, a leaf turned over, a single moment seen as forever. I look forward to skins folding over each other drawing lines that makes us all irrelevant.



"It is for you, it is for you." - William Stafford