Hands

Hands

Hands

Hands

On my breast,

My hipbones,

My thighs,

Not coaxing but forcing

Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference

Hands, deep down there where I had never had another’s hands

That sweet ambrosia that I’d reserved for a God

Believing myself to be undeserving of a taste, Eve’s antipode, if you will

(the hands had no such concerns)

Because someone had said to me (lied) “That’s special. That’s for someone special.”

But the hands told the truth

“It’s not. It’s not. You’re not. You never will be.”

And so the hands continued their incessant path

Day after

Day after

Day

And for the rest of my life I will try to fill the crevices,

the indentations that the hands left in their wake

And I will fail

Late at night, I will feel the ghosts of hands

And I will be all alone