Apalachee Review 59

		number 59 P O E T R Y by Jeanie Thompson
		And After I caught you looking at my hand, you held it up above us, light in your larger hand, you held it like a specimen - splayed the fingers - naked, ringless, white. What were you thinking when I caught you looking at my hand? I wouldn't call it beautiful, though you can. After love, the body doesn't care - it slackens in a drowse, goes unaware, just naked, ringed with pleasure everywhere. The organ of the skin has ruled the blood, the heart, the lumpish brain - Were you thinking that this hand, that'd touched you deftly back to life, to breath, will lie so still in death? Where had I been when I caught you looking at my hand? Far away in the skin's flush, pale now, contracting, wondering, where did this begin? What were you thinking when I caught you looking at my hand? Were you thinking, "How small within my larger hand, I don't know this hand at all, or even grasp her naked pleasure, when she alone seems ringed with light." What were you thinking - (I didn't ask) - when I caught you - (you didn't know) - looking at my hand - (that afterglow, held in morning light.) return to index of issue 59 -->