Finishing Touch

Ever since the painter depicted
Your finger extended to Your creature,

we have known we crave a surrogate touch.
We press others’ palms to our faces,

as if we were still being molded,
polished by an apprenticed love revising

our rougher destinies: Each hand found
more skillful than the last, each imprint closer

to Your transforming seal. I know this,
and still I have to ask for reprieve

in illusion, to linger in this present
flesh, believe in her finishing touch.

I want this hand:  its knowing strokes
inside my thighs where all portrayal begins.

Let this hand complete me for the stretch,
the soft edges of these fingers be the last

of earth I feel, let it be her own
hand—hers alone—that will close these eyes.