skin

HER

how can skin
lack in color so quickly
draining from a newborn pink
to ashen grey
how can skin
keep these insides
from exploding out
from the news of skin
lacking in pulse,
blood slowed to a pause
how your
skin
feels
nothing
like
how her skin feels now
your hands are rough
callused, vaguely
consoling
pulsing,

HIM

how she
grows so small before me
– oh
small fingers
so deathly still –
I need to solve it.
I need to fix it.
I reach out to grab her:
“it’s not your fault
it’s not your fault”
over again
stroking the thin
taut
skin of her hands.