i was just thinking about how
you bought me the shoes
i’ll wear to your funeral.
which got me thinking about feet–
which got me thinking about hands–
and i can’t stop thinking
about the time
i reached for your hand
and found a lit cigarette
burning my palm.
about that time your hand
struck my face
after i called you a bitch.
all i can think about
is what your hand will feel like
when i touch it for the last time.
all i can think about is
how i’d endure a million slaps
to keep your hand on my face.