Handles

it’s your handles
I say to him as I wrap the quilt over our shoulders
it’s the bend of your body at the hip where your usually prominent bones
are shrouded in soft skin and flesh
it’s the way my fingers dig in as I pull you backward onto my thighs
onto my lap if I’m curled in our bed wrapping myself around you
like dessert spoons and soup spoons in wooden drawers
like notebook paper covered in blue ink folded together
the beginning and end of a story

it’s my handles
I say to him as I stack another glass on the counter top
it’s the play between the rough pads of your fingertips and the folds of my belly
pressed against the sink
it’s your lips on my back and your forehead on my shoulder
and your smell of steel in the dish soap
and the way you tug on me while I’m working and wet

it’s the handles of drawers and of cupboards and teapots
and a cast iron skillet
and a vibrator and a sewing machine and a set of wrenches
and a website and a résumé and an idea about vodka
it’s the places we reach when we’re moving

it’s the dishes on the coffee table
and the bowls on the floor
and the blanket too
it’s you asleep in my lap with my ankle pressed between your thighs
tea cooling next to me
a magazine, a ball of yarn, a movie
it’s the twitch of your body as you drowse

it’s our handles
I’ll say when you ask me
it’s the way we found them and showed them and grabbed on

This piece has been edited to exclude explicit content. If you’d like to read the full version, feel free to ask.