Where the Hands Still Feel

A thousand eyes black, iris wide

Into the light of a thousand suns

We never dreamed of reaching such depths

Because the heights were there,

In the stars, the moon, the lamps

The streets lined with bulbs burning kilowatt hours

To light our darkest bodies walking

Hand in hand

New tar over old cracks shines

As paint dries on old new brick canvas

To the polyrhythmic pavement stomps

And dance steps and hopscotch,

skipped rocks, and tire tread hums,

Accompanied by windows rolled down

To the midnight chorus breathed into the wind

Forgetting we have not yet begun

To press our hands against the hemorrhage.

Having forgot our hands, our bodies,

Possess the one-two beat of

inhale/exhale to resuscitate

These stepped-on hands,

Shattered metacarpals and burst bursas

Brush broad strokes of “feel this, please”

Pleading with the world we still have

Heartstrings to pluck

Are overpowered by the gunshot stroke

Of the clock: every second of every minute of every hour

Of every day

We grab that barrel with our busted hands

Hold back the hammer from a hollow point

In hopes of turning it all back

But we can’t.

Not forever.

So we do the best we can with what we have.

And these hands are more than enough to mend

Our open chests will direct us where to stand

And a rhythm unmistakable to our ears as universal

Will tell us, “Go”.

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