My hands

My hands

touch his

calloused, dry, icy ones, eyes peering past me. 

I can see,

for just a moment, into his soul, but more so

into mine.  Dirty and dark. I had wanted

coffee and a candy bar. Money I had set

aside. Do I know sacrifice?

Here is your paper. It reads

“How to Handle having HIV.” I toss it on the floorboard,

this man’s treasure; this man’s means. 

Thank you.

His beard, burnt brown and burly. 

His hands 

touch mine. Smooth, pale, and polished.

Have a good day, as I drive away. A knife in my stomach.

Be my hands, a faint voice whispers. 

Those hands are my hands. 

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