His sweet sweet words

Mechanic's son

I washed my hands
as best I could
or ever had before then.
I scrubbed under my nails,
the beds of my cuticles,
the webbing of my fingers--
with my prints on her skin
I tried to wash them away
from my fingertips
to let them belong to someone else,
and to let other hands wander like mine
and recreate my memories
and claim them as their own
and have me free from them
and leave me well enough alone.
My signature is branded onto her
porcelain skin, burned pink.
Her porcelain skin
is draped over almost silk sheets
and draped over her is him,
heavy and think
he heaves his weight,
shifting it from his left to right
hard hand and calloused fingers
still dirty like those of a
mechanic's son.

By: Paul Allard

His blog.
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jr