The Hand

Deep sleep...
a sound I no longer hear awakes me
and, in the guttering candle's glow,
I see a hand.

Just the back
of a gnarled, scarred, almost arthritic, hand
peppered with liver spots, carpeted
with black hair.

The hand
slowly turns until I can just see the "M"
(for Mother Mary) inscribed on all our palms,
then it lunges towards my throat...