Siobhan Jean-Charles

Fingers without Hands

“Iodine night sky, straight to veins through eyes.”
–J Robbins 

Before we split, I did not know,
like a pair of Eves molded from the same lump
of imago. If your right hand offends you, cut it out. But it wasn’t 

my hand, it was my fingers sliding, cupping, stroking, as if I could coax
a moan from your lips. Your body stopped
responding to mine long ago. You hardened and every soft curve became alabaster. Your gaze 

was unblinking, fastened to the ceiling, legs spread like you were stargazing
on a cloudy night. Once you started playing dead
on the mattress I stopped 

playing dumb. I didn’t want
unenthusiastic consent. We were not making love. My mouth
on yours was rubbing two sticks, grinding for a spark that will not. 

We were dry halves of worn wood, whittling one
another down to frayed splinters. Do I tell 

my friends how you laid my rabbit across your thighs? She was
belly up, eyes wide. You touched 

her as if you were slipping a child’s sweater over their head
gently, as if you worried about shattering something. Do I
tell my family the first time I felt afraid of you was at the boardwalk? 

I gazed up at the night sky, as if the dark would swallow
me. The darkness would not be a rescue, but a terror. The sinew 

has been severed, and I have cut off
my circulation from you. Is this the price?

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Siobhan Jean-Charles is an English major at Salisbury University. She is a reader for the University's literary magazine, Scarab, and a writing consultant for the writing center. She enjoys writing poetry that explores nature, power dynamics and internalized oppression.