By Cecelia Devlin

When put to the task of my body
your hands seem to summon a muscle-on-muscle memory:

Of fine-tipped pen to paper
breathing in to the contours of some strange skin
A needle stitching a stubborn new seam

These are the hands I think of
when you elicit a bend in my spine
or a cry from my lungs
A worker’s hands

My phantom fingers speak a strange tale
One of inertia,
A riddle of fine strings tethered to a mistrustful body
A writer’s hands, whittled down by page-turnings
Dutiful hands

There are few tasks these hands have relished
as much as those framed by desire for you:
intuiting a pathway to a lobe,
a strand of hair
The slope of skin falling from collarbone to chin
is a plot that writes itself

Here, uncertainty can lay no claim –
Each trail of ink I leave behind is an imprint
of hands that know their value
A language of desire
with the ethic of work