hands

my hands have been empty for as long as it takes to

hold the air with certainty,

they know the heat

of pottery mugs in the dark morning, the texture of creamy

book pages turned hour and hour and hour uninterrupted, and the

sudden slip over the freshly shaven skin

of my calves.  they have been empty

for this long and they

carry my words before

setting them free to memory, and caress them, 

they way they did my babies, in

gestures of surprising passion.

my hands, with space to hold a body in them,
love fleeting things, love nothing, and 

when i imagine yours in mine, i see fullness, sweet and heavy,
and feel the quick burn of bourbon on my tongue, for a moment
and then gone.