The Hand

In her heart, not a word of his love could land;

for focused was she, intent on his hand. 

It gripped her hand as though it could snatch

all of her lost love in swift-fielded catch. 

So determined was he, so suppliant, so thorough;

yet within her, unease began to burrow. 

She kept her thoughts hidden during his verbal cascade

of "love" this and "love" that, will's desperate tirade. 

For in the hand -- now she couldn't have specified this --

but in the hand, the way it sat, there was something amiss. 

The skin, white and cool; the fingers, thick and strong;

an artist was he -- but then, something was wrong. 

It was a hand of will, a hand of strength

yet contained and complacent -- would it go love's length? 

Or would it harden and close, clenching into a fist? 

Would it ever explode, and could such a fist miss? 

Hands down, she decided:  He must let go. 

But he wouldn't, at first, when she told him so. 

She needed no more, then, but to get away --

leaving him in yesterday.