Old-man Hands

My life is in my hands. They are thin and clean. 

They are hairy and worn. I have old-man hands.

They are veiny and they shake uncontrollably. 

They like to draw people and write letters. 

They like delicate things and putting things in order. 

They have to hide from the cold, in pockets or between my legs.

They don't have what it takes to hit someone.

They have each other to hold. 

Sometimes they get confused and don't know

What to do when they should.

Letter to a Nun

Sister,

I realize that you spoke for the devil last night. I could not sleep for some reason, so I thought about the things you had said to me in the end. Maybe I could not sleep because I thought of those awful things. You say that people change, that their faces slide right before your eyes and the room begins to change and transport you into those nightmares where they touch you. I have gone from your life, but my face never turned from you.

I looked into your life, and you cursed me, spitting as you poisoned me with those vicious words. You may have once praised the darkness of this life with those lips...those chapped, trembling, and frowning lips. Those same lips that begged me to compromise my goodness for pleasure, spoke death into the life of an unborn child...your child. You spoke for the devil. Now you say you hate Jesus. You have no problem saying that you 'fucking hate Jesus' and that I made you hate him. The devil would say anything to survive. You only want to flourish. You don't want to rebuild or recognize your life as a rotten mess. I could not sleep, thinking how obviously involved the devil had been.

He grabbed my legs one night in a dream. I was sleeping next to you. I dreamed that a dark shadow rose from the side of your bed and took hold of my legs. I was being pulled off, into the darkness. I reached out for you and told you I loved you. You told me I was melting like a snowball in the fire. Why did you say that? Was it the devil in your voice or his voice in my head?

Sincerely,

Redding 

From the Neighbor to Someone

Somehow I would rather put up my mitts and fight you, not to hurt you, but to see how far you would go swinging playfully at my face, than let you see me naked. Somehow I love you most when you look at me with those mischievous eyes and lie to my face, than when you are playing with my hair and humming gently into my ear. I think that if our eyes never met, I would not consider you more than a servant...a long lost friend, maybe.

If you meet me tonight, just as I have asked, expect that I will have already forgotten these words I am writing. You will have to come forward and tell me your name. You should look deeply into my eyes and tell me that I have sent for you again. It is not out of pity or boredom that I call on you like this. I have been waiting. I have been planning my escape. It is in my desperation that I love you this way...our way. I am not sure you understand what it is to look into your eyes.

I lost myself to your looks. How ironic, no?

Losing to you,

Mary