We have touched so much since December,
steeping teas torrid and arctic ice cubes
a thousand fibers, prince bee his princess
generous blankets papering flu
the drizzle on wedding dawns or departure’s eve
pieces of candy for holiday celebrations
even the ending of a movie –

these are wild fingers that we have
rebellious, juveniles in mind
singing summer stories through knuckles  
bodies long slenderized
and they are more than myself

to them, I have no name
but my brain and I are their mother
a well-mannered woman in command

I feed them lotion,
then play in the sand apathetic
whistles papercuts that sting with
mouths as lions tigers bears sharks leaves
asking which hurts most significantly of all we
have loved –

and then again, what enduring does not belong?

The adolescents scoff at each of their
five circadian baths, and I hear cries
for showers because soap makes them crack

but it is in your best interest, I say;
you touch everything that gets in your way

to move is beauty and transitioning more so:
my hands are dancers, pirouetting
on stage to fall harmoniously with
bashes, revelations, words I care to mean
yes, these are what causes the bleed of
my aging hands, and throughout their years,
rings dying them green.