oh, and his hands are marble–metamorphic

& scattered. they bend only at my whim &

snap like no other. they were made to be

held–a renaissance of sense, a deluge of

affection, a command to genuflect.

if hands are holy than his may just be prophetic–

tell me how i’ll die & just how hard i’ll fall. tell

me untruths & what i’m worth to all. hands

are made to writhe & write so we each pick one–

yours are unkind–a shock to none. hands.

they make, break, shake & escalate & i’ve

known hands that hover & hands that hold

back like gags & hands that can’t say it back

& hands that say no really, i’m not mad &

hands thatpalm blame & hands that drop

hands that hand themselves over

but i’ve never known hands that just hold hands.