There’s more than one way to read that fist of hers.
It might be a defensive gesture—like carrying on
an entire conversation with your arms crossed—
but it might mean something else completely.
Maybe she’s got a tiny apple in there—keeping it warm
so you can eat it later, baked in the oven of her body.
Or maybe a single pearl found at the edge of some ballroom
her parents dragged her to when she was ten.
Her dress itched her knees so she crawled
in the shadows, stumbling upon this pale eye
escaped from some rich woman’s neck.
She grabbed it, kept it secret until now, until your face,
your body, your special way of looking directly at her
when you speak. And she’s about to reveal it to you
if you’ll just calm down and reach out
to take both of her hands in yours.