Let’s begin with your hands.
Pulling hair
and picking on strings
of hearts
and guitars.
Typing and writing.
Would your hands be happier hiding?
In a dark room with a desk?
Hands can be so dangerous
if you know how to use them.
I’d like to feel them
tight around my neck.
Closing in on breast
and hips and...
Your hands turn to fists
a lot
I bet.
What about your lips?
Do you lie to yourself
when you use your hands
and bend your wrists
to light euphorias within?
Do your lips leave you longing
for sonant truth
only your hands can execute?
I want you
to feel me through your chest.
You keep my fingernails stained
with your blood and bones and flesh.
We are bodies full of maggots.
Marrow made of magnets.
Wearing skin jackets
stitched together with staples
and vices we don’t know how to live without.
Let’s forget.
Let’s remember walking down dark roads
and waking in dark rooms
with desks.
This time with paper and pens.
Let’s begin again.
This time with just our hands.