Weeping, I contemplate divinity.

  Erect a temple to hands.

  No statue of interlocking fingers, no

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  Bodhisattva carved in calm repose—

  My hands are crueler than that.

  Make it a church of cupped cheeks

  And creaking fists. An altar of aching

  Bones and sundered skin, a shrine

  Of regret and repentance.

  My hands are a confessional.

  Old and haggard things,

  Let these weary hands rest.