—after Lucie Brock-Broido
I have the boniest backhands, thick veins, too,
that can take a needle, fill tubes of blood. I could make
your lip bleed and swell with a fast, well-aimed rap.
My rings are loose. I wrap band-aids on their metal backs.
I believed if I prayed hard enough—blanched my palms
from pressing them with all my faithful weight—no one—
no one—would ever die. Now, I only believe in the world,
and the sound a backhand makes on front teeth. What
is it in me that needs to tell you this? I’ve gone a full
season and haven’t lost a glove. They’ve stayed cuffed
into each other in a sack deep in my hall closet, kept
warm by loyalty and by the copper pipe along the floor.
I would love for my hands to learn to play a waltz, to shadow-
mime winter birds, for my hands to transform into,
on the one hand, your heart, on the other hand, my heart.
