A lascivious mirror of my will,
the right hand. Already reaching
for what is not yet in sight.
Stretched out for the fodder
of babyhood, the red thread
of adolescence, for whatever it can
annex by manifest destiny,
the westward expansion of desire.
With that starry freedom
from the gold band, the ballast
decelerating its weak sister,
the right hand preens and loiters
and hopes to get lucky,
five fingers drumming.
I want, the tendons strain.
I withhold, palm turns inward.
When we reach out, the mound
of Venus flattens against its nest
of bones as if to say, Who me?
Sooner or later another right hand,
equipped with its own set of ruses,
uncoils and makes a move.