• Victoria Monet


Hands conceal

Hands reveal

Hands murder

Hands grapple with the soul

His hands want to breathe free

Exposed in the light of his lover,

But they remain engloved

Veiled by fear and failure yet to come

His fingers once

Intertwined with hers now

Wrap around her neck

Clench until the last breath

God save the one who so acknowledges the world

Blood on our hands,

We squeeze hearts of

Mothers, lovers, friends

Blood on our hands,

We beat bodies of

Men, women, kids

Blood on our hands,

We hammer nails into

The innocent man

By whose hands could these tortured lovers live?

Macrina, Macrina

Pry open these hands

Palms up to the heavens,

To the bloody man

And he will bring peace

Where fingernails claw

Where doubt and dirt linger

And he will wash these hands

And with these hands, we can

Caress babies to the breast

Embrace friends to the chest

Intertwine fingers with lovers

In our old age,

These hands may weather

Tough as leather

Veiled with scars

But these hands will

Hold babies, lovers, friends

Touch wounds

To heal and mend

Trembling, join together

As they hold one another

Praying words

The mouth cannot

These hands will conceal

These hands will reveal

These hands will murmur

The final words of life

*A Poetic Reflection on Natalie Carnes' Academic Article:

“Possession and Dispossession: Wittgenstein, Cavell, and Gregory of Nyssa on Life Amidst Skepticism”

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