Wake Me With Your Hands

Wake Me With Your Hands

Contract signed,

your fingers pulled the pen away.

We suggested

an outside ceremony,

but the air thickened until

every surface was beaded

and wet.

Then, that awkward movement,

pushing a wet ring

tightly up to, but not beyond

my second knuckle.

Your hand slipped soft but

abruptly violent over the back

of my wrist

and I smiled to

push it on myself.

That readers find romance within

yellowed pages

is incidental;

that mothers find love for

the unborn suddenly

and in pain,

is unremarkable;

your hands have moved

slowly,

that glossy-wet trail

like your maiden name

on our pact, like your

ring on my finger,

like your dark breath whispered

over my skin,

an incantation,

a laying-on of hands

to awaken me,

and morning comes once more.