Elemental Hands

The bleak earth
with hands made for you, you tilled the soil
till it came up—green beans better than roses
picked em one by one split between
myself and the bucket and
i ate them hot
with supper
and the Earth, then, was just the earth to me.
 
The riled swarm
with hands made for you, you robbed the hive
spinning those frames
cutting up the comb
with that hot knife
hot and sweet, in a hot, sweet and heavy summer
spitting wax like it was a big man’s chew
and the Day, then, was just a day to me.
 
The calm waters
with hands made for you, you cast the line
baiting my hooks
with fat worms and minding my casts
drinking water out of mason jars
our smiling catfish-strung Polaroid
yellowed into gold by sun and memory
and a fish, then, was just a fish to me.
 
The sharp day
when hands made for you came cold
shovels trembled
and the sun burned, that day, blackened
and the world, then, was so many days
I had known, and tasted, and breathed
the Earth took you and i could not speak
Death was a wailing machine—i could not understand
 
These days
these elements of your hands, in my hands
when each day is born
and still I learn, to do what i could not.
and the Days wash upon me as water.
and the Earth is put under my feet.
and in this element still, I mourn and wonder;
can I live, with hands made for me, so well?   


‘Elemental Hands’ appeared in
Central Avenue issue #11, October 2003