Wax Hand Holding
by Peyton Moriarty
I do it for you. Throw part to the pit,
how it heats in one-way passion, ask you
how it hurts to give and not take what you
swear you hadn’t promised. We counterfeit
a bond on edged looks, please, fuck, just admit
why our hands won’t stay one when I try to,
why you won’t laugh the same when I try too,
and I cry-shine goddamn you self-acquit.
And I thank you for your ice. It numbs me.
I inundate channels with wax, grip it tight,
a cement fire, technicolor pour
over porcelain I can’t stop but see
as death. It is an eggshell. A string bite
and it slides off, harmless, call-nothing core.