After Kim Addonizio
Photograph by Kelly DuMar
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write,
despite their swollen joints, handily touch
your handsome face as you bend to kiss me,
mischievous eyes, caressing love handles.
We laugh as you squeeze handfuls of soft flesh,
our private handprint for what will come next.
An offhand remark that we’re aging well
a backhanded compliment I tell you.
In our minds we do handsprings to the bed,
searching for the handcuffs we haven’t used
in years, remembering how we’ve handed,
each of us, our hearts beforehand, then once
again, our shorthand message soul to soul,
our touch a longhand verse of love still whole.
Smoky Quartz 