—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
   phalanges.
   But I’d rather stick to the common
call of the things you actually
        are.
     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.
        Honey,
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.