Freckle

Each Saturday morning I see you
handing bills to the cashier at the checkout
and the skin on the back of your fingers
is workworn, chaffed by the elements
into which you plunge your hands each day:
soil or flour, I don't know which.

I want to move my fingertips down each rung
of the ladderlines of your fingers,
across the grooves in your palms
where this secret lies.

There is a freckle on the back of your hand,
and I want to touch my tongue to the skin
to see if it tastes like earth or chocolate.