The Hand

"I turned to face it,
offering a hunger
that required no mouth." - Amie Whittemore

dripping from the popcorn ceiling,

incarnadine, dark brown, brown-ish red, wine red.

rancid, breath of decomposition

lacking, tongue, teeth, mouth.

from the contracting, expanding, undulating,

mass of flesh of the popcorn ceiling

a hand emerged.

then followed the arm,

descending, reaching out

to me.

it dripped sanguine,

just enough to burn a hole

in my cheek.

it reached into itself,

scraping, clamping, throbbing,

ripping through itself.

the cleaved, slivers of flesh,

and pools of molten copper

spilled into my mouth.

i awoke drowning that night,

watching the hand caress me,

paralyzed as it took my eyes from me.

Hand of my own.

Hand of reflections.

i conceded

simmering my temple

into red wine and flesh.