The Beautiful Hand
THREE HOURS
Not a word.
Not a word.
And not a song
played on a radio
in a garbage truck.
Not a little, braided
friendship bracelet
clipped by a nurse
from a child’s arm.
The doctor drops
the sponge.
The helicopter.
The mother
waves to the sky.
Good-bye.
Something in the grass.
Something in the trash.
Something on the floor.
The tail is tangled.
The shadow is the sun.
I love. I love. I love.
And butterflies for eyes
Sugary coffee in his cup.
Please, another sponge.
*
CALLING MY NAME
I thought we were playing
in a forest. I ran
as she chased me.
But it wasn’t game.
She’d been stung by a bee
or bitten by a snake. She
was calling my name,
which, even as I child, I
knew was not, “Please.
Stop. I’m dying.” And
she knew I knew. She
knew.
But, look at me
running anyway, my
limbs like flames.
Look at me running, my
mother behind me.
Calling my name.
*
FIFTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL
Even the hand-holding
in the hallway
already done. Boy
she loved, had
just begun to love.
How to tell her that this world:
We never earned it. Therefore
the suffering, we won’t
deserve it.
Long night:
Lost housepet
howling at the center
of a meteor shower.
Bright morning:
A mirror
full of her.
*
THE BEAUTIFUL HAND
Never underestimate the devotion
of a God who gives birth
in darkness
to his own likeness
by thought alone. You
were loved wildly before
you even had time
to open your eyes.
But now you can never catch up.
And that’s the rub.
The gifts pile up, and
the thank you notes
you never wrote, wrote
and never sent.
To the parents who adored you.
To the friend you cheated.
To the lover, whose friend.
To the magician, who stood
on the stage
in a puddle
of his dearest
assistant’s blood. While
a rooster crows about you
on an upturned pail all day.
While a jellyfish of cloudy
flesh moves through the water
whispering your name.
