The Hands of the Betrothed

Her tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness,  
Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty;  
Yea, and her mouth’s prudent and crude caress  
Means even less than her many words to me.  
 
Though her kiss betrays me also this, this only
Consolation, that in her lips her blood at climax clips
Two wild, dumb paws in anguish on the lonely  
Fruit of my heart, ere down, rebuked, it slips.  
 
I know from her hardened lips that still her heart is
Hungry for me, yet if I put my hand in her breast
She puts me away, like a saleswoman whose mart is
Endangered by the pilferer on his quest.  
 
But her hands are still the woman, the large, strong hands
Heavier than mine, yet like leverets caught in steel
When I hold them; my still soul understands
Their dumb confession of what her sort must feel.  
 
For never her hands come nigh me but they lift  
Like heavy birds from the morning stubble, to settle  
Upon me like sleeping birds, like birds that shift  
Uneasily in their sleep, disturbing my mettle.
 
How caressingly she lays her hand on my knee,  
How strangely she tries to disown it, as it sinks  
In my flesh and bone and forages into me,  
How it stirs like a subtle stoat, whatever she thinks!
 
And often I see her clench her fingers tight
And thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of her skirt;  
And sometimes, how she grasps her arms with her bright
Big hands, as if surely her arms did hurt.  
 
And I have seen her stand all unaware  
Pressing her spread hands over her breasts, as she
Would crush their mounds on her heart, to kill in there  
The pain that is her simple ache for me.  
 
Her strong hands take my part, the part of a man  
To her; she crushes them into her bosom deep  
Where I should lie, and with her own strong span
Closes her arms, that should fold me in sleep.  
 
Ah, and she puts her hands upon the wall,  
Presses them there, and kisses her bright hands,
Then lets her black hair loose, the darkness fall  
About her from her maiden-folded bands.
 
And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hair  
Dreaming—God knows of what, for to me she’s the same
Betrothed young lady who loves me, and takes care  
Of her womanly virtue and of my good name.