The big hands I loved. Still love.
Made enormous by doing hard work.
Amazing to think of them pushing strings down on his guitar.
Looked like one finger would press three strings.
And yet the sound was one string--beautiful.
And so gentle those big hands,
touching me for sex,
loving me, caressing me.
And his face, giving up, giving in.
Always touching me, gentling me.
And then one day no gentleness.
Just a big fist, breaking my nose and two orbital bones.
I saw in his face, the face I loved,
that he was sorry, and he said so.
I threw him out, but I let him back
because I found out I was pregnant.
Now, thirty-five years later,
he hasn't hit me in years,
but he hasn't touched me either.
And he's old.
His hands aren't as big now.
I miss that.
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