Y o u r   R e m a i n i n g   H a n d

Your remaining hand
Has no right to be beautiful.
It has rolled silver bullets
Into the chamber.
It has held the knife
Beneath a camouflage of burnt leaves.

I want to put traitorous things in it,
A two ton gold sarcophagus
Of a self proclaimed god,
Hieroglyphs scrawled in blood
On the skin of lamb white pharaoh bats,
Faulty guillotines from lost civilizations
Plague spores of ruined genius nations,
Tongue thick black orchids
Pressed in a book of spells,
Voodoo dolls of discarded lovers,
The broken leash of a runaway dog,
Shark bones, anaconda skins,
Hexagon husks of prehistoric bees.

I want you to wake
In the cold 3 A.M. blue-black
With a phantom itch in that missing flesh,
Feel the temperature in my new country,
Reach hopelessly, ridiculously
Into my laughing mouth
For your missing hand.

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