To the Girl with Pretty Hands

J. K. Giih



When we first met, your prose was as beautiful as your hands,

but you had a boyfriend

and I was a nervous horse.


Tomorrow you’ll be reading your poems with a Russian-born anarchist

who made his first book of poems by hand

on brown recycled paper

like William Blake.


I’ve never read my poems with anyone.


And how could I identify myself as an editor of a magazine

when it’s not even printed on anything?


A government-related lady on an unemployement course

said she liked my CV

where I said

I was the president of an absurdist society of one (1) member

and a pope

(I have a card that proves the latter)

I think she considered me a lost cause.


You haven’t published anything on paper either

but I still respect you as a person

more than I respect myself.


All these years I’ve longed for you — you should see

what my liver looks like.


Why haven’t you written me

and asked me about my novel

like I haven’t asked you about yours?


And besides, if you think you’re such a great poet

why aren’t there any pictures of you on the internet

I could masturbate to?