her hand by anna fonté hot & solid in my hand, when i hold hers i grip a hunk of liquid crystal baked in sun
it worms into me, swimming veins, up to my armpither
where it curls inside my chest
and so i press her fingers to steady the flutter.
but also, there is the wonder
warmth or mine or ours together
that radiates from our grip & into the air around us
to form a pocket of energy, a fierce iridescence
& when we walk like that, who’s holding whom
in my hand, mine in hers
the place where we meet, the flesh of our connection
no, it is a fusion
& if we wore mood rings, they’d be indigo, inky as the night sky, brimming with milky galaxies & dark holes of ayahuascan wonder, infinite & ineffable, inscribed inside with two simple words:
holding hands her hand.
only stretched out, so the letters touch like we do
h o l d i n g h a n d s
no end, no words, only touching
h o l d i n g h a n d s h o l d i n g h a n d s h o l d i n g h a n d s h o l d i n g h a n d s h o l d i n g
but what am i saying?
This is a poem I wrote for my daughter for Valentine’s day.
Explaining the unexplainable–or trying to, at least–is a fun game to play. I hope she reads it someday.
Happy V day to you all! I hope you get lots of love today.