My relationship with your hands
runs as deep as you.

I sometimes forget your eyes
but your hands--

your hands I remember
on the base of my spine.

They run over my back
and down my legs,
hold tight round my waist
and to my arms.

I can still feel your hands
over my eyes,
in my hair,
between my legs,
on my knees,

and round my neck.

They grab and hold too tight,
they pinch and smack
and ball into fists.

Your hands are a gun to my head,
always on me.

But I keep putting flowers in your barrel
and hoping for the best.


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