The Hand I Hold

I know your hands well --
can hold them to my heart.

Lying together,
your hand is a fully-bloomed flower
spread open across the small of my back.

Like a lifelong solder
it bears the burden of your commitment
stoically
to the grave.

Hard and sharp as a dagger
your hand comes down quickly
on all the things
I haven't done wrong.

Hands white-knuckled with fear
like a solemn preacher
asking forgiveness
from someone unseen.