hailstones

perfectly smooth chocolate skin, touchable
wrists set ablaze by gold linked bracelets
she holds a myriad of pebble-sized
hailstones
in her upturned palm
a stranger’s offering of peace
I hesitate to accept...
I ask if her hands have touched
the exotic animals in her native land
caressed the savannah’s grasses
under lonely acacia trees
wondering discreetly how the fiery ore
adorning her hands does not melt the stones
laughing
she says god’s gift from an angel’s hands
cannot perish
if my heart is pure and limpid
one by one, with a scintilla of magic, she drops
the pearly white stones into my timid hands
their perfect chill warms me
they do not melt



hailstones
[2009.28.3…a]

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