Friday, August 12, 2016

Ribbons, Volume 12, Number 2, Spring/Summer 2016

what the hands know


she sits and stares
her palms curling skyward
against her thighs
two weathered coracles
adrift, and filled with rain

disconsolate
she fillets a fishbone sky
into quadrants
the way they divided
her cancer into stages

barn swallows
scissor through thick air
until a cloud
falls through her fingers
in an epiphany

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