The Squeeze

I reached across the desk to take his hand,

the boy who’s set to colonize my land.

His palm was soft as unbaked, white-flour dough,

without the marks that tell you where to go.

My thumb caught on a callous near the bone,

a ridge of skin the shovel made its own.

He flinched as if the friction were a spark.

We stood there in the quiet and the dark

of things that shouldn't need to be explained.

I left a damp print where the glass was stained,

a ghost of heat that's shrinking from the sun,

to show exactly how the work gets done.