His Hands

They ask me about my preferences:

"What do you like in a man?"

The 'Misses' at the University,

walking their eyes across my dress,

dragging white fingers across desktops,

killing

time.

Handbags. Eyes. Lipsticks.

"What would attract you?"

I hear them all, one by one

and never know what to say.

I do not know any men.

I dream. An evening drowned

in purple bruises and white lies.

Flies. And hands.

Hands that held the mood. Hands that played

it all. Hands that beat. Hands that were bitter

and hot. Hands that sawed air and broke

my breath into two. Hands that hush-hushed.

Hands that rubbed. And rubbed. And rubbed.

Hands that bloomed and betrayed. Hands that

contained. Hands that took, took, took.

Hands that crawled. Hands that clawed at the silence.

Hands in my hair.

Hands.

"Come on. Don't play shy!" She insists,

"The smile?" "Chivalry?" "The style?"

"His hands."