By Fizza Abbas
I already feel the touch of his hand.
The razor-sharp blade cutting through my cheek
sets a reverberating tone.
I hear it sometimes
often when thunder lightning spreads her hands
to welcome rain –
It doesn’t hurt.
His hands feel confused:
to feel my skin or to crackle my bones.
I’m happy –
his hands have a separate entity
that doesn’t accept the orders of neurons:
A shy maze of phalanges and frail lines-
My definition for home.
© 2020 Fizza Abbas