The Palms of Strangers

I woke up wanting, to kiss the palms of strangers,
to feel the weight of salt and soil
in the creases of my tongue,
to pour libations on the train tracks
with the taste of work still drying on my lips.
I woke up wanting, to kiss the palms of midwives,
to trace with my breath, the shudder
of doors creaking open, the whisper
of water and blood, the tapping
of bare feet, like heart beats, on dirt floors.
I woke up wanting, to kiss the palms of soldiers—
boys and men with hands clenched tight like babies—
to urge them open with my longing,
wash them clean in the cold creek,
and set them to kneading the dough for bread.
I woke up wanting, to kiss the palms of ghosts,
wrinkled flesh pressed soft across my mouth
each breath an exhumation, stories told skin on skin
as we throw our heads back in laughter,
breath steaming the air with silver puffs.

--Brooke Casey, Autumn 2004