The Handless Maiden

One opened, cradling itself:
a bowl of sheened pink offered
mainland with promontories,
a chaos of rivulets.
There were shallow sharp grooves
as if scratched by nib or quill;
others, etched with deeper intent —
runes, not-to-be-translated.
Behind knuckles, needlework threads:
cobalt-purple as the tracery
on thumbs. At the wrist,
lightning strike of lavender
and almost-aquamarine.
The other stretched out flat
on her lap: five moons about to set
or rising; brown rain staining
earth-flesh. As it turned, light on
ruched silk, river-ripples.
They met, began to
reshape each other, learn
each other, dance…
What to do but go on imagining
these hands till she could
grasp on to life and not let go
before life failed her,
while the poem cupped by
the fingers' cage sings to soothe
Death, allay its worst fears,
coax it into a painless
light sleep.