Just a Hand

It's just a hand in the darkness--
Disembodied, meaningless, representing nothing.
It steals across my body, seeking, caressing.
And it even feels good, if I don't think about it.

It's just a hand in the darkness--
Powerless to hurt, just a thing,
And at 3 a.m. I can quicken to it,
If I remember not to think about it.

It's just a hand in the darkness--
Wanting, touching, connecting.
Something about 3 a.m. makes any touch a comfort
If I don't think about it.

It's just a hand in the darkness--
Claiming, demeaning, fulfilling, objectifying,
But only an object itself
If I don't think about it.


From somewhere comes the inevitable shifting sighs;
The hand has sown other seeds,
And I, who did not refuse it before,
Must now accept the harvest--
But I don't have to think about it.

I do not crave this union,
But it is only a hand, only a part,
And it is 3:04 a.m., and there is "love,"
If I don't think about it.

It's just a hand in the darkness--
At 3 a.m. a hand is not unwelcome,
And its moisture and tears flow together as signs of humanity.
I am connected, and it is not,
If I can refuse to think about it.

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