The Problem with My Hands

is that they wandered

Across the soft skin of my milky

Six-year-old thighs--

Releasing heavy breaths

on the leather couch.

Her looming shadow crossed the oak door;

My mother, brows furrowed, sneared,

What were you doing in here?

Warm, salty tears filled the spaces between

My red lashes as nervous

Hands wiped them away. Wet.

Let the priest now slap my wrist

As I confess my sins. Sins

Of lust and desire for my body

Which is not mine but

His.

his.

Bodies reserved for

Anthropomorphized men.

Let the church slice off

My slimy, indulgent fingers,

For God does not hold the

Hands which pioneer the body.