Thumbprint

Four dark commas where your fingers were.

The thumb mark separate and lower,

like you thought better halfway through

but your hand didn't get the message.

Purple-dark against my pale skin.

Darker than I expected.

I keep looking at it.

The bruise maps itself in separate

fingertip marks, each one a small dark

apostrophe. A punctuation of your grip,

your hands, the moment

your grip became something other

than what it was supposed to be.

I don't know what to call this.

I don't know what to tell you

when you notice tomorrow.

I don't know how to explain

the shape of hands

still holding

even after they've let go.