Your Hands And Mine

Checking for ghosts with his rifle, he paced through the night,
Father stood guard in our hallway, the noises behind.
Morning, his thumbs in the meat of my shoulders pressed tight,
Waking the dreamer, the hunter and healer entwined.

Wednesday, back door: turn the lock.
Thursday, waking: check the clock.

You with an orange rising and falling in orbit,
Palm over palm in the light while I stood by the door.
I could not say why, but my whole body adored it.
Size of your hand. And the arc. I had known it before.

Friday, kitchen: watch it spin.
Saturday, dancing: pull me in.

Freddy’s red glove on the poster above my old bed—
Razors for fingers that sliced through my dreams in the night.
But yours: just the rope of a vein on the arm by my head,
Pulse I could count in the dark till the ghosts took to flight.

Saturday, nightmare: ease my frown.
Sunday, sleeping: hold me down.

Over our tea and bagels, we’d speak without speaking:
Yes was your fist, maneki-cat, beckoning me near;
And No was your hand, a mouth pinched shut; we were keeping
Grammar we’d learned before language that no one could hear.

Monday, breakfast: pour the tea.
Tuesday, nightstand: sign to me.

Spider-fine tracings you walked up my hip in the black,
Dancing their dactyls from pelvis to hollow of thigh.
Click of release—the old knot I’d cinched in my back—
Something I’d carried for years. And you stayed for the cry.

Wednesday, massage: find the ache.
Thursday, darkness: let it break.

You with a wrench in the dark, till water quit running,
Forearms like braided rope to moor a ship at the prow.
Listening, your cheek to the pipe, for what was coming.
The everyday grace—it will hold—your everyday vow.

Friday, driveway: check the oil.
Saturday, garden: turn the soil.

When I grew heavy you cupped my belly like water,
Waiting for ripples distinct from the heave of my breath.
Kicks were the words of a still unmet daughter,
Alien grammar you learned in the dark on my flesh.

Monday, bedside: lift the cup.
Tuesday, hallway: hold me up.

Shaking, you held her—your palm a warm bowl for her skull.
I watched you become my father, steady in his aim.
Her fingers locked onto your thumb. And I knew that pull—
Red glove turned mitten. The gesture is one and the same.

Wednesday, carpet: watch the crawl.
Thursday, playground: break the fall.

Three on the sidewalk: her hand into yours, into mine,
Swinging between us, a fulcrum of yelling and spine.
The orange arcs up in my mind. There it goes. The line
Running from that arc to this—her hand to yours to mine.

Thursday, sidewalk: three in line.
Friday, front door: hands in mine.