Palms

Locked in an epic struggle.
Either I hit the back of her hand
Or she best me and scurries to safety.

Her hands rest on my palms.
Intense concentration Is written in her eyes.
(If only she bestowed it on her math!)
Time suspended, her next movement critical.

8 years-old, with dark brown eyes,
An olive complexion, and long deep brown hair,
Absent is her usually hair twisting.
She must maintain contact while considering her move.

A troubled child, from a broken family
She retains her innocence.
Or am I too old to see the cunning?

Smiling, Emily fakes,
Starts to lift her hands, but retains contact.
Is there a comfort in our touching hands?
Or is she merely following instructions?

I’m fast.
She will barely lift off
Before I hit the back of her hands,
Maybe I’m foolishly over-confident?

I would light a candle in prayer
That Emily’s world
Will allow wonders.