Emily's Hands (Poetry)

She’s fast asleep, her lashes dark half moons,
pink blanket pulled up close beneath her chin,
one hand’s escaped the folds of her cocoon,
her fingers curl, look creased as newborn skin.

So delicate, so perfect, every nail
sculpted like a wing-case, insect-small,
her knuckles blunt, her tiny wrist so frail
the wonder’s in the detail of it all.

Composed in sleep, but still we half expect
a sudden twitch or cry, and can’t help feel
the vinyl fist might, any moment, flex —
unnerved they could have made her hands so real.