If I could sculpt your hands I'd shape
each finger, quiet in its arcs and ridges,
outstretched in the way I want for you, too.
I'd trace the lines of each knuckle
from memory, shape the curve of each nail
and it's elliptical path to match
the orbit of me around you.
I'd complete a model so lifelike
that it and my cunt would beg for each other,
that the palm of it would rise
in the heat of me till fingerprints
pressed in on their own. If I could sculpt
the hands of you, I'd be obliged
to fill it with the physical memories
your hands carry: a thousand moments,
ten thousand tasks that keep me
(the skin and mouth and whole of me)
taut, seeking and gleaning.

Damned as we are there is still space to sing
Or howl out under a raucous moon
Take me to the snow and the open land
And let me breathe the cold carbon air

Curl my hips toward yours, drag me
Hot with protest to your mouth
Where I am barren leaving me bearing
The perfect rings of your teeth

The earth may die and us with it but
We will go out screaming, as we came in,
Petulant with vigor and desire and calmed
Only by the skin of another person

Ode to the palms of your hands

For where your fingers fling me, I am never prepared;
but I know that I will be caught, breathless and spellbound, in your palms
holding the world of me together while you whisper,
catch your breath.