Laying on of Hands
Each fingertip drawn across my flesh
Each point of contact
Finds tiny silk threads looping in and out of my every pore
Mingling along the meandering pathways in his palm
My skin stretches and lifts
Heartbeats waft up and out with every breath
I am touched
He touches me
I am a poppet on a string
A semblance of my body animated
Through some magical sympathy
Soon he is a fetish of himself
And our effigies burn
Pixilated from sensation to sacrament
As they say, “A visible sign of an inward grace.”
Neither here nor there
We dwell in limen
Awaiting
Our speaking tongues to soothe say us into tomorrow
poem by Alizon Kiel
Added by Poetry Lover
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