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my hands are canyons with rifts, ridges, cracks
snaking through peninsulas of fat
like land deposits

the truth of time is pressed
on every bulge and wrinkle
blue veins, like rivers
criss-cross the barren landscape
of my metacarpals

my palms, burdened with well-worn trails
are a fortune teller’s dream

there’s poetry in these old hands
in the storm of skin and bone
that’s held a thousand possibilities
(and my babies too, and wiped their tears)
and cracked my knuckles
my cut-cookie palms
wave goodbye and goodbye

and goodbye

fingers gnarled, skin withered
the first tools of my chosen trade
I will discard them, eventually
as easily as the rest of me

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