the girl in my hand

no time to be cold
no time to be smiling
no time to be burning
no time to be tired

the girl in my hand

is ready 

for some conversation

that i'm not prepared for

i can feel it
harbored in her heart
a desire to
be heard, fully

the engine of her

cells was born
as a mechanism for

profound dissertations

but we trip that switch

as soon as they exit

the womb

and they dance instead

all the time for hips

all the time for breasts

all the time for skins

all the time for lips

the girl in my hand

is not yet ready

for the knife to the flesh

or the finger down the throat

her mind not yet

distended from

the sewage of all 

those glossy prophets

whose forecasts

send the girls

to mirrors

pinching distorted 

reflections

of the figure and never 

minding the

distortions of the mind

every time for him

every time for her

every time for them

every time for us

we are her centrifuge

spinning her out

and separating her

from her lovers

we watch

and we play her

and judge her

and distill her into a glass

drink her dry

and leave her

to begin her

way toward center

wondering why

she is

why she is

draining

some time i hurt

some time i cry

some time i bleed

some time i vomit

the girl in my hand

is not looking in

but looking out

because her in is out

and she is her

and we are her

the world folds

into her

and by God

this is where

it should happen

that i not fail

and by god

this is where

it should happen

that i listen

me for me
for me for
me for me
for finally