Under the Table

It’s always
All hands under tables—
They must have known
I had shoulders—
Like trees touching in secrecy
Beneath green blankets,
Tangling roots with earthworms
And sticky palms.

I could bat my eyes

Like good women do
Or I could just palm-read,
Lacing bloodlines with
Tip touches and finger flicks
Under the table.

I usually skip

The prologue pages
Anyways.
This isn’t much
Different.
Is it?

Fairies dance their orbs

Over bridges,
But our hands weren’t
Made for catching,
Only applauding,
Hand-shaking,
Cock-shaking hand-jobs,
And hand-holding,
All under flat back
Wooden dog bodies,
Only they don’t bark
Because they don’t
Have heads.

We’re in secrecy here,

Under the table.

Well, this is all fine,

But if we’re busy
Dipping our hands
In nail-beds
With no blankets or pillows,
Where, then, do we sleep?