Thursday, August 23, 2007

them brown hands

the sweet brown in her hands
spoke like a god because their touch
quieted the young swollen mother
—fresh with grief
so many things she
could fix for this child except
this kind of rite-to-awakening
so she began to sing
––the brown
—in her hands
this will not be the first time grief
flies down to posture around them
like a crisp promise
grief hung around
even before death
it hung around
stagnant
a definite lure
a famishing lurk
almighty and promising
like death's youngest sibling
grief pushed the child-mother
(barely a child herself)
into —too soon for her to know
how it feels to lose
a child
so
the brown hands worked and sang and
tried to begin over
and made a pecan pie soup and tea cakes
to change over
the hollow in ––time

them brown hands

all the while aware that nothing
will ever relieve this child
from the serious behavior of change
from this inevitable contradiction
from this kind of stunning residue

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