In Which I Long to Be a Tool of Labor

I imagine your back
glistening with sweat from
a hard sun’s work
of day. Your hands rough,
grown gaunt and
emotionally unavailable
after gripping
tools, weight, stone, the things
you hold and heave
in order to afford the cost
of loving.

Wish as you might,
you can’t love comfortably
without a few green notes
in your pocket, their texture
dry but promising
as your crackled fingertips.

I wish my name was Benjamin
so you might brush my lips after
a day spent longing for my
face. I wish I was
whatever it takes,
whatever you must hold
to hold the one that you love
most. I wish I was

the one you love most.

Eric Cline is a poet currently residing in Dumfries, Virginia. He serves as a staff writer/reviewer for Yellow Chair Review, and his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Crab Fat Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, The Commonline Journal, and elsewhere.

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