A Poet's Guilt! ! ! Poem by Miss Unknown Empty

Come into my black hands.
Touch me. Feel the grip
and cramp of angry circumstance in each finger tip.
Hold them burning to your lips.
Taste the bitter argument with God
engendered in the skin-
the unhealed bruise inherited- like sin.
Tell me what you understand.

See the nails,
where the nails are hammered in and broken? ...Where the flesh is dead under the thick rust?
What is to be said that does not touch on lust?
Where will you begin to heal my deep distrust?

These hands you made!
Across each palm, these scars, track upon track, were laid,
and grief passed over grief and nothing stayed.
It is that odor of despair! ! !