I can't live without 

          hands. 

Hands. 

           (Are you real?)

Romancers to my lips, 

reminders of God, 

they are shadows in my bedroom, 

feeling pages of leather bound books

          -libraries for girls who cry too much,

tucking me close, 

feeling strands of my hair, 

             (You took my hands away from me, didn't you?) 

they are like puppets,

my body theirs, 

and their body mine.

I would scream.

My hands are often complaints, 

But God blessed them once, didn't He? 

That baptism felt a lot like 

hands, 

hands. 

 

I can't live without hands, 

the way they hold me in open fields where You dance,

 they way they sing underwater, 

the way they held those fists, 

and wiped away those tears

                                          (were they Yours or were they mine?) 

like fires too rich to inhale. 

And your hands, 

quick to move, 

passionate speakers, 

holding butterflies in the wake of their slumber, 

an enemy of wrists, 

fond of bleeding 

and teeth, 

spoke whispers only to me

and my hands. 

 

I want those hands. 

            (are they Yours or are they mine?)

I want them to breathe their slumber 

on my tired body, 

I am theirs and I am God's, 

I am your mouth 

kissing your veins, 

asking you, 

"Have you forgotten to eat today?" 

and 

"It's a nice day for a walk, isn't it?" 

I do not mind you not answering, 

for your hand is in mine.

 

Your hands, and my hands, 

will lock themselves in cages

so tight they will fit 

in the pit of my stomach.

We will talk about how 

our skin looks like fruit, 

how emptiness tastes like it, 

how much we need these silly human touches 

like rocks smoothed from sea 

or 

my sister's obsession for worrying over me.

We will write love poems for my mother, 

and let flowers dry those stains on her cheeks. 

                             (Is that her or is that me?)

I will look beautiful in a black dress, 

a happy bride, 

a confession kissed between my fingers

before the knot is tied, 

before we wring our hands 

in sandcastles and breathing, 

before our air is like a clenched fist, 

before Your love is a quiet moon, 

(like those restless nights I had way back when I shivered from the panic 

of having no one to talk to,) 

before your eyes are like mine, 

before your tongue becomes food for thought,

before we are too awake to dream,

then hushed, 

laid to sleep

in the arms 

where Your hands lie.