What Kind of Hands Did The Monster Grow

What kind of hands did the monster grow.

A royal flush, peaches and blush blooming
epiphanies from the wrinkles in his palms,
the desperate twitch of a boy sitting alone
and naked in a cold bathtub swallowing soap
and scraping food from his nails with loosened
baby teeth, begging for his parents attention
as they’re baptized in fertile soil and sunlight
making love to each other in the garden,

As a grown man, he wants a baby girl
and dreams of ripe dripping fruit,
letting her hair swallow his fingers whole,
a petal waist, full moon hips, three pouts
before his hand smacks the tart from her mouth
and lays her to sleep under the quilt that he made
from the hunger he hides in his hands

they tickle like tinker toys and goose feather,
they slow down their silhouette over skin,
they orbit like possession lost in a house fire,

He unleashes them when he is alone with her,
when the sky turns dust to pink, when darkness
settles quietly into the room where he learned
he could give her goosebumps with a whisper
and steal much more than a virgin’s first kiss,
he calls it love     she touches him back,

What kind of hands did the monster grow.

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