// Sarah Borror
you left your hands to dry outside after the rain. I asked you to monitor their skin, make sure the pigment
would match that of your feet. not to worry, you said, you’ve been running barefoot most of your life.
if anything, the likeness will grow. but it’s not the color I’m worried about. it’s the sensation. the very
palms of your hands should feel when they’ve ripened. ache a little with each wake. as your feet feel
pressure every day. all steps stronger than the last. calluses and curved toes. foundations for growth.
your hands rest. sipping dew that drips from trees. tapping fingers less and less with each morning.
curling to sleep as I watch. without touch, can they grow, be a setting for home, for us? I asked if you
missed your hands. you told me your feet were keeping you warm. the next night, I saw you place them
on your wrists as you slept. when I woke to check the window, your hands were gone.