I imagine your hands:
Are they sculptor’s hands,
Made to build, thick, strong,
I know they are trustworthy.
But are they hands with tapered
Fingers with tips that light me
On fire as if my heart were their wick?
I know you light me on my fire.
Are they rugged and rough
But able to cradle my cheek tenderly?
Are these hands that have hit other men?
Are these hands that were born for holding,
Trusting you’ll hold me with the same care
You held your daughter on that day that
Was full of beauty and tragedy all at once?
Are your hands like your heart, able to hold
All, feel all, and do your hands know truth
By the tingle along my spine when I imagine
Then moving my hips in rhythm as we dance
The dance of animals and lovers, where spirit
Sings and moans and cries and love gives birth
In the Petite Morte to more love, endless births?
Will your hands be here when I need them
To hold mine and let me know life is better
Than a dream and that there are happy
Beginnings that have no endings as we waltz
To Once upon a time across my tale that is more
Full of joy for all the woe. Yes my friend, grief
Courted me most of my life as she baptized you
Several times in ways I can only imagine.
Let me tell you that secret one more time:
I long to feel safe. I long to rest my head on your heart.
I long to know all of you knowing that there is always more
To know because my heart has been barren like my womb
For too long and now though too old for babies my womb
Is ready for your seed, to bring your love to life in mine.
Love elephant and want to go steady?
Editor: Bryonie Wise
Photos: Bryonie Wise