You told me once about your mother.
Not a lot, but she was a lover.
She would squeeze your hand three times
to spell out the words
and look down for your eyes to know
to squeeze back
as hard as you could.

Then, you took mine.
squeezed it real tight.
and we laughed.

Another night,
I watched the moonlit dance of my
apartment room reds
where another woman lie flat,
knees up and head.

She took my hand, too
to hold on, tight
and I thought of you
right before
She squeezed you to death.