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).

I sigh,

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.

Abductor pollicis.

Flexor digitorum profundus.

This is your last caress, you know?

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