Alone, in public,
she pretends she knows sign language.
Her naked hands shake,
into an alphabet inside his patient fingers.
Her fingertips find the edges of his palms,
white canes, lightless room.
to some invisible strain of music.
He flips her hand, a cup,
a lotus, flattens it to a canvas,
his fingertip calluses
painting fast, vast landscapes.
He traces trees, double yews,
three branching birches.
Her mouth corners cinch.
She weaves pinkies, rings, middles,
lacing their hands quiet
with finger thread.
Lauren Annette Boulton will graduate from Saginaw Valley State University in August with a bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing. When she is not writing, she enjoys working for the Michigan Department of Natural Resources, substitute teaching, making chocolates and candles, camping, and hanging out with her ten-month-old nephew. This is her first major publication.