I imagine your hands:

Are they sculptor’s hands,

Made to build, thick, strong,

Trustworthy?

I know they are trustworthy.

But are they hands with tapered

Fingers with tips that light me

On fire as if my heart were their wick?

I know you light me on my fire.

Are they rugged and rough

But able to cradle my cheek tenderly?

Are these hands that have hit other men?

Are these hands that were born for holding,

Trusting you’ll hold me with the same care

You held your daughter on that day that

Was full of beauty and tragedy all at once?

Are your hands like your heart, able to hold

All, feel all, and do your hands know truth

By the tingle along my spine when I imagine

Then moving my hips in rhythm as we dance

The dance of animals and lovers, where spirit

Sings and moans and cries and love gives birth

In the Petite Morte to more love, endless births?

Will your hands be here when I need them

To hold mine and let me know life is better

Than a dream and that there are happy

Beginnings that have no endings as we waltz

To Once upon a time across my tale that is more

Full of joy for all the woe. Yes my friend, grief

Courted me most of my life as she baptized you

Several times in ways I can only imagine.

Let me tell you that secret one more time:

I long to feel safe.  I long to rest my head on your heart.

I long to know all of you knowing that there is always more

To know because my heart has been barren like my womb

For too long and now though too old for babies my womb

Is ready for your seed, to bring your love to life in mine.

Love elephant and want to go steady?

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Editor: Bryonie Wise

Photos: Bryonie Wise