Such were our soft hands.
We thought we spoke a new language
Of skin – untarnished, a sweet sweat
When our tongues touched
And our fingers found their old purpose
Sprawling out a blanket upon the beach
Where the sun (or was it the sand?)
Burned the soles of feet. Our love’s
Stern arm, heavy as tenderness. ——
There were specks, sand on our lips
Licking fresh words or wounds
None knew the difference, but they slipped,
Travelled unscathed.
The embrace welcomed, encouraged
As if we were simply heat.
Such are our hardened hands.
Unable to speak the old language.
Remnants written on paper, a poor papyrus of
Conjugated verbs, glittering adjectives
Slippery nouns, tucked between brittle envelopes
Placed underneath threads and sewing needles
Inside Mason Jars and old tobacco tins
On basement shelves, a form of containment
Where the stairway creaks, the furnace flickers. ——
So much fire, two feet, just a walk
To the vague haze of old words or wounds
None know the difference, but they slip,
Travel unscathed.
The embrace welcomed, unwelcomed
As if we were… simply heat.