The Hands

Not so much the hands as what
one does with them.

Maya uses hers to braid her hair,
a soft ache in her arms by the time
she has finished.

Not so much the hands as what
fruit one peels.
Clementines. Grapefruit.
Pomegranate.
Hands to lips. Not so much
the hands as the feeding.

Maya kisses her mother with that
mouth,
leaves a trail of citrus behind her.

Not so much the hands as the
hunger.

Two open palms. Eager teeth.
A birthday cake and a boy’s eyes
on her blue dress.

The hands and the feasting.
She sits at a table and knows
what love looks like when it
has just eaten.
Fruit dripping from the
tongue like
spit from a rabid dog.

By Caitlyn Siehl

Biography:

Caitlyn Siehl is a poet from New Jersey. Currently finishing her senior year of college, she is going on to receive her Master’s degree in Communication at Rutgers University. She has published one book of poetry entitled What We Buried and has co-edited two poetry collections entitled Literary Sexts Volume 1 and Literary Sexts Volume II, all through Words Dance Publishing. She enjoys spicy Jalapeno chips and being surrounded by dogs at all times.