a poem a day for a year # 129

by Amy Turn Sharp


it's not like I would hurt you 
on purpose
matter-of-fact
I would fill up a bucket of good intention
and we would drink from it
like thirsty travelers
people who just
finished dancing
running
making love

but we would hurt each other
eventually
with our big fat brains
guilty
angry
unable to look into eyes
forgetting the exact color
erasing freckles
moles
from memory
the exact curve of hip
deleted
a precise dimple
ankle
back bone
the way you looked while sleeping
voided from thought

our hands were touching underwater
our hands were stroking each other
skin on skin
neurons firing
inside a brain once in love
our hands were fine 
but our fingers kept pointing at each other
like a reflex
like a bad habit