Hands Grazing Poems
by Samantha Moya
Thumbs touching metaphor,
scrapping,
pulling apart riddles and anagrams.
Open the black box under the bed,
peek in at its secrets, dust it off.
But quickly, ferociously, you wipe the dust from your hands,
Put the box back into the dark.
It was a futile venture to you,
you never were good at figurative language,
it was all nonsense in your brain,
maybe even a weapon to be used against you,
to confuse you,
but you never understood that it’s also
where love hides
between the similes and half rhymes.
scrapping,
pulling apart riddles and anagrams.
Open the black box under the bed,
peek in at its secrets, dust it off.
But quickly, ferociously, you wipe the dust from your hands,
Put the box back into the dark.
It was a futile venture to you,
you never were good at figurative language,
it was all nonsense in your brain,
maybe even a weapon to be used against you,
to confuse you,
but you never understood that it’s also
where love hides
between the similes and half rhymes.
Samantha Moya is currently a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Colorado Boulder. She studies Political Science and does her own writing and arts on the side. Her work has been featured in Serotonin Poetry and The Poetry Question. She is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico and currently resides in Denver, Colorado with her partner and two dogs.