THE RAVEN REVIEW
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      • Issue IV
    • Volume IV >
      • Issue I
  • Home
  • About
    • Who We Are
    • FAQ
  • Submit
  • Current Issue
  • Archive
    • Volume I >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II
      • Issue III
      • Issue IV
    • Volume II >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II
      • Issue III
      • Issue IV
    • Volume III >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II
      • Issue III
      • Issue IV
    • Volume IV >
      • Issue I

Wounds Shaped Like Hands

by William Rowden
His hands
were on me,

and that leaves marks,
leaves wounds.

Now I
am made of them,

these
black freckles, these

burn marks,
handprints.

Plucked,
taken.

Ripped
from the root––

I built no calluses.
Instead, I hid

underground,
gliding veils

over myself,
this hoodie, these gloves.

So cloaked,
I can’t be seen

tending,
tending to myself.

My plump, pink
skin––

So bare
that it’s begging:

Touch me,
touch me,

someone,
but no one

like him,
no

claymation hands,
and no pottery slip.

I escaped,
narrowly,

to this cave,
to this echo,

and lingered there
in the black.

and silence
becomes a cloth

stitched over
my open mouth,

and a voice
from the belly

of this cave
groans

and says,
“You cannot

be hurt
if you cannot

be heard,”
so I follow it

into the depths​.

William Rowden is an aspiring writer from Texas. When not drafting poems, he plays guitar and listens to movie soundtracks.