A poem – by Iris Monica Vargas
Your hand awaits so calmly. I place
my gaze upon it like a butterfly
that’s dying, sucking slowly
the last few drops of water with its feet
as if you were a soaking sponge
they placed inside a plastic cup
– its home at the museum.
I place your hand upon my fingers. It’s not
your destiny I seek―that much is clear.
Your palm, its skin is hard, like leather on
the seat you used to occupy to read.
And it resists,
I pause, clench my teeth
and turn my head to the other side
(I whisper, not looking at your lids).
For how can one endure so plentiful an irony?
I hold my breath. I focus
on your hand again.
Then I undress it
and Latin blossoms from its core
Flexor pollicis longus,
Flexor pollicis brevis.
Flexor digitorum profundus.
This is your last caress, you know?