—by Y’onna Hale

My hands—
     connected are fingers almost
     always icy to the touch.
I guess the technical phrase
          for the bones you
          have encased will be
   But I’d rather stick to the common
call of the things you actually
     You twist and turn in a dark chocolate
        mop of curls.
          The times you’re shy to connect
     you glisten with sweat
               I try so hard to hide.
You enable me to grip and connect
  to this sleek rubber pencil grip.
you have choices:
not holding on to the sweaty touch
     of a man I don’t love
          but gripping onto him,
     a summer breeze mixed
     with tough love that breathes
          cherry cigarettes.