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?