If she came cloaked in darkness, moonlight washing only her hands, . these fingers grow like stalks swaying from a solid trunk sprouting from a base where children jumped ship and hid from monsters. . Find them curled in rage waiting to explode not on face, but on mounds of clay and spinning liquid string glass from shape shifting dreams. . Clasped like prayer without words, betsy's hands fold for keeping angels warm, asleep on her palms.