Knuckles pull their power from the upper limb,
untie the knots, gnarled and unresolved.
Oils from the Garden of Eden
trickle into every hidden crevice,
tributaries feeding into the river of life.
Palliative petals and stones rounded by the sea
cover each self-inflicted wound.
A voice as ancient as crackled glass
to the other side.
You know the one
neglected for so many years,
the back that needs to be walked upon
hiding the bones closest to brokenness
many of them beyond repair.