She is my rock.
A Psalm.
Leaving behind the pages of text.
Psalms and prophetic, proverbs.
Reading her palms
Soft like processed American cheese
smooth like warm vegetable oil under my index finger.
Tracing her lines, the valleys of her outstretched palm
to find the truth.
I find it.
Not the answer of what comes next
but the answer of me.
She is a stone I hold at night
a smooth corner between my breasts
another in front of my lips—her shoulder
My arm cradling the belly of a boulder
settling down in the foam.
