my heart prints my hand

First, a layer of wax laid down by crayon

or hand-sized cube. Second, the scratching of a pin

or fingernail, something to leave a trace

without a stain, grooves not yet melted into

 

smears. And then, the sponging of colors fluid

as blood, uncertain as sweat, over these wounds

that might be words or love. Wait. Press the paper

against the paint and peel what might have hardened

 

against wax, against skin. Wait. Remember

the flames that loosened votives to your thumbs.

And press again, press each ridge against another

 

page for the same image in lesser hues, finding

the lines true even as the filter blurs.