To A Hand

There was this hand
that was generous in spreading fear,
not love to its surroundings.
He held out his palm

while the back of his hand,
his fists are full of blisters and boils.
He handed me a shining apple
and told me to eat it.

I jumped in joy for being one
of the few blessed - not with frost
from his hands but fire

that seemed to warm my soul.
I bit the apple - smiling.
And it was my last.