The Fist

I am a fist,

which clenches shut and releases wide 

A soft clamshell 

gently opening and closing

to absorb emotional nourishment

in the great deep of indifference 

I am a fist, 

veins popping ready for action

Sullied knuckles of dried blood—

a veneer of healing flesh

still stinging when you rinse it

A scab that has yet to form 

I am a fist,

holding your hand tight when you are lost

guiding you through crowded rooms 

and across lanes of asphalt riddled with potholes

Reassurance links your palm to mine

A diversion of cool confidence distracts you from my sweat