Her hands are always last
to give up the fight. bitten fingernails,
dry, painful looking splits at their tips,
like turtle bites in the flesh
of a tomato that has dried in the sun,
slips of white skin peeling away
from the cuticles, knuckles swollen
from cracking, two gold rings
on each finger that she uses to explain
her contrasting dispositions.
this delicate linking of bones
beneath loose skin
holds a white, china bowl
filled with pecan pie
and golf ball scoops of chocolate
chip ice cream. Propped up
against her bed pillows
the bowl rests on her chest
between the soft falling of her breasts.
Ice cream melts – melts – melts.
Her eyelids flutter – flutter – close.
The bowl tips and threatens to spill,
but her left index finger
is bent over the edge like a steadfast hook
in a fish’s mouth. Right hand forgets
to hold the spoon and her pinkie
slides into the chilly puddle of sweetness.
She is dreaming.
She is the rising swell
of a ski slope in Austria.
My love, why don’t you let yourself sleep?
I lift her right hand and lick
warm milk from her fingers.
She turns her head
and gives up the bowl whispering,
I don’t want you to leave me.
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