My hands have many relationships,
and a complicated love triangle
between the backspace
and the rest of the keyboard.
Fingertips go back again
and again to the backspace
to erase the mistakes
of the rest of the keys.
He is the Mr. Fix-it
to her wordbeat swoon.
The keyboard writes my hands
love sonnets and epic happy endings,
but she keeps returning to the backspace
to mend every red squiggle or blue mark cracks
of their endeavors.
The interface doesn’t give up
and keeps delivering my palms volumes of ideas
in the hopes that one day
my hands they don’t linger
at the delete button dip all night long.
Poetic Trials 