I keep my troubles in my hands. A curse
has made them stiff as catcher's mitts. You see
I cannot bend or flex. No pills for this.
Still, others have it worse. And in my dreams
I am Titian. My hand the perfect brush,
slowly circling your nipples, your belly.
First with red, then green. An old artist’s trick
to make skin glow. We’ve seen for ourselves rooms
filled with long-fingered Madonnas divined
in paint the color of olives. Heaven,
how much the eye can hold—even as it
searches for more. Like my hands every night,
longing to draw you into my arms. Though,
as if alone, you lie facing the wall.
