Reflection


This is my hand.
Funny I never noticed,
how at times my fingers
are shaped like yours.
It’s a startling discovery.
Holding my hand 
toward the light, staring.
Watching in confusion.
Unsure now, as white
jagged scars draw lines
around my knuckles.
Twenty-seven years
since shattering glass
with my hand tightened
into a fist full of rage. 
Deep pink grooves
from three years past.
Who knew cheap 
drinking cups could
cut down to the bone
if broken in dish water?
Barely visible skin
slightly browner, colors
a small, uneven square.
This is my birthmark.
Lowering my hand,
shaking my head.
Can no longer see
your hands in mine.

@ donetta sifford
9-21-2013

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