To Have

In these hours before dawn
that aren’t night-time

My hands feel empty

All day
they move about
without seeing themselves
They point at things

Only one of them is quicker
As your eye settles on other things

Sliding over the page
it feels and conceals
Doodles the mind’s thoughts
The heart’s longings

Steadies the cup
at the utterance
of a hopelessness
Positions itself as a shield

In these hours before dawn
that aren’t night-time

This hand can’t hear your voice
Can’t reach over to wake you

Won’t taste the face it touches

It yearns to articulate
an emptiness
Shape the clay
that explains

In a quiet heap
beneath sleeping breasts
as separate as stars
hands rest
Holding their secrets

In these hours before dawn
that aren’t night-time

This hand runs a bath
tests the temperature
signals the body
to follow