Parts of my right hand haven't touched water since the night of the crucifixion. On the butcher block, or the cutting room floor, or whatever cold place they layed me down, they let me die beneath the glowing rainbow insides of oyster shells and the angels of technology. As I lay there, dead before the white shamans, my tiny spirit was initiated beneath the foothills of the Underworld, and I was abducted by righteous devils who got mouthy and drunk off my blood offering. And under the reflective blade, the healer married himself to me. He took his cleaver to the stigmata, cut it up to the knuckle, down to the wrist, and drooled into the incision. Bandaged from top to bottom. I almost expect the cocoon on my arm to open with wings, a fat yellow butterfly. But as more and more of the dressing is slowly pulled back and peeled away, and more of the dirty new hand revealed, I take an even greater joy in scratching away all the old, dead skin. It falls in flakes, little brief spasms of summer snow, from the pink of my dead palm's backside. This is exquisite meat. I could feed the poor.

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