Laying On Of Hands Poem by Alizon Kiel

Each fingertip drawn across my flesh
Each point of contact
Finds tiny silk threads looping in and out of my every pore
Mingling along the meandering pathways in his palm

My skin stretches and lifts
Heartbeats waft up and out with every breath

I am touched
He touches me

I am a poppet on a string
A semblance of my body animated
Through some magical sympathy

Soon he is a fetish of himself
And our effigies burn

Pixilated from sensation to sacrament
As they say, “A visible sign of an inward grace.”

Neither here nor there
We dwell in limen
Awaiting

Our speaking tongues to soothe say us into tomorrow