There are hands on my body, how many.
Do they belong to the other, heaving.
These hands that want to touch me, my skin.
A burlap wrap around the roots. A transplanted tree.
I just remembered how these hands came in here.
Was it the last blond moon after the last
full day. I strayed beyond my sliding door
to switch off the terrace lamp. A figure spilled out
of shadow. As if night had waited all those
years. Time is indexed by tones of abandon.
Whose. On the terrace the logic of want
placed one by one its hands on my body.
It invited itself. Now day after day
my body tenses. The hands never flinch.
Zoë Hitzig is a poet and PhD candidate in economics at Harvard University. Her first collection of poetry, “Mezzanine”, is published by Ecco.
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