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.