Smooth hands are suspect.
I love the roughness of your touch,
the way your hands snag my silk blouses.
Sandpaper man, your calluses un-seam me.
I have tortilla-making hands, but don’t make them.
My fingernails have chipped blue polish
from Saturday night, are cut short for typing,
are tattooed with the ink of poems.
My hands touch moonlight on your cheek while you sleep.
Originally published by The Sierra Nevada Poetry Review
Photo Credit: Stewart Ferebee