Your hands were meant to cradle babies’ heads,
catch flower petals falling from the sky,
and hold onto great-great-grandmother’s china.
Let them fall to your sides, and spirits will reach out
to grasp them. Cup them, and they might pool liquid sunlight
or at least attract nesting bluebirds.
When you put them in my hair,
they feel like Mary’s hands searching for wounds
left by the crown of thorns. Soft as the robes of kings,
as the linen worn by monks as they peaceably
burn alive. A purity, finely crafted,
that I couldn’t possibly deserve.

Jackson Newbern