Poem: These are the Hands | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine

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Poem: These are the Hands



Being so caught up

So mastered.... —W. B. Yeats

Tonight, you cling to my nakedness

with the perfect gratitude of a nearly

drowned man. And I think:

I am the shore he has washed up on.

And I ask: Who is really the one saved?

So much doesn't matter.

There are no questions about where

you have been or where we will go.

There is only now.

There is only your cheek pressed

against the inside of my thigh,

the feeling of your skin becoming my

skin, the sound of you drawing me in

as you inhale that sweet, spicy heat of me

that rises up from a dark,

warm place you want to return to.

And there are these hands.

Hands that you have given a purpose.

Hands that have read the electric petition

of your body and understood. And read on.

These are the hands that will not lie to you.

These are the hands that you will return to.

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