Hand I Shall Not Lay
Glamis. An inheritance
by Richard George
of sadness unearths her eyes,
a burden of hurt generations of women
she carries well.
She has lost a skin, and gained a shell.
I gaze at her, and see beauty beyond desire.
She looks at me, and recalls
another's stubby fingers
and goatee on gaudy night
when timely Bacchus drowned designed delight.
We are in a cave, before history.
She weeps. I want to comfort her.
One touch, and she will scream.
I am monstrous, and male.