There are times
when you reach your small hand into mine;
make a gentle rasp against the palm
to click as you unlock me.
The mechanism must be ancient –
imagine the inventor of hands and sons and love
agape at his own prowess
a bubble of saliva against his lip.
Finger, the fit of you, and how
this pressure is enough to pull
every nerve as tight as tears
caress in confirming
what you know and cannot know:
that you have me and yet you don’t;
the oiled bolt, the reach and hinge
falls open to you, lets you inside.