Oh Yes
–William Matthews
My hands, my fists, my small bells
of exact joy,
clappers cut out
because they have lied.

And your tongue:
like a burnt string
it holds its shape until
you try to lift it.

We’re sewn into each other
like money in a miser’s coat.
Don’t cry. Your wounds are
beautiful if you’ll love mine.

Photo by Ronald Smeets on Unsplash