My fist is a heart,

the three fingers of my other hand
the arteries that branch from the aorta:
left carotid, the brachiocephalic, the drooping
subclavian, each of them implying,

in the way I drape my hand around my
other hand, a dangerous possibility.

Telling a story about the heart
with my two hands sixteen weeks now,
a story that I know is not my story
but is my story, too,

the hours I spent at a bedside
my hands held his feet and stroked
his calves, aimed the shower nozzle
so that the water fell just right

on his neck and down his back
articulate the system holding
what has been stitched inside
the casket of his chest:

I drive to the hospital, my hands
gloved in thin leather, another
skin the color of darkened blood:

I shed them to touch his face, throat,
the strips adhering the incision.