HAND

The problem with her is that her hand never stopped hovering. Rarely, was I touched. There could be any reason for this. Sometimes the hand felt lovely. Like brambles protecting me from oversunning. Sometimes the hand felt innocent. Like a child’s Thanksiving turkey. Sometimes the hand felt like a dare. The hand dared me to hold it, shedding a shimmering lavender glove. Jessica Rabbit.

I adore Iowa’s fauna. Less than an hour ago, after having some viscousness leave me, embarrassingly, secretly, in a bush, its colour unknown, rabbits walked me home. I never have to feel alone. I never have to feel alone, even as I come home to the quiet apartment that is always quiet. To the girl that is always quiet.

The surf scoter duck is silent most of the year. The male’s bill functions as a second face. Against Audobon’s white background he appears hole-punched. His Blackness appears collapsed. Maybe reprisable. Zora Neale Hurston feels the most Black against a sharp white background.

As a child, I was half mute. Like Effy Stonem; or maybe Ferbian; more input than output; an emoji; double shivering irises; stillborn with questions; I was silent most of the year.

I used to spurt bad emanata. Bad words, sharp graphics left my mouth. Rushed out my mouth. A talent; like a master key, I could make a wound out of anyone. Quickly and easily. My mouth had a fever, a pussiness that I still feel shame about.

The hovering hand sometimes felt ghoulish. I acted haunted. I acted possessed. I acted poorly. I asked her to cut the hand off. I asked her to use the hand to fuck me or strike me.

This hand, fashionably walked the lines of sister, of mother, of lover. Light mahogany. Spindly. This hand graded every line. And I was not special.