Her hair shines in lamplight, hangs down to the floor. She kisses the hands of the old.
She brews water late into the night, makes the kettle whistle in the silence, utters strange prayers through hands splayed wide like the wings of doves.
She weaves apologies into her hair and tries to remember that nighttime is not a death sentence; the sun falling below the horizon in no way resembles the executioner’s blade.
Mouths are beautiful to remind us to speak beautifully, to talk kindly and bless each other with our mouths. She reminds herself that fingers are so long and fragile to allow us to gently cup fallen birds’ nests. They’re soft so we can caress the curve of another’s body.
Hands are for helping and feet are for walking gently on this earth.
She feels like the cup of tea tipped over on the shelf, Earl Grey leaking out and pooling at her feet.
She feels like the rabbit the gunshot killed.