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Meghan E. Stacy

Pedochronology

I turned your hand over in mine,
followed with my tiny finger
the weathered crevices of each line
weaving like parched rivers.
Deserts of white, arid skin
breather ancient tales of labor
fantastic to this puerile mind.
With a glossy pink finger
I trace the blue-brown veins
that pulse beneath your skin,
pumping passion and pain,
vehemence and vivacity,
coursing through tissue and fiber
for thirty-two years.
I ogle my hand in your;
a pygmy replica, born to wither.
Yours has clutched me;
mine will clutch my own.