Laurinda Lind


Energy jumps like fish in
clear bowls & hands jerk too
since they are quick since
their fear is the towns of your
heart so the right monsters
will ride with you instead of
plunging off the platform once
they read the map but revile it.

Hands take textures as food
like a memory of bread still
soft in the middle, also the way
burlap will snag, the ease of
zippers though someone else
always stops first, if not at
schools then later by lakes
or killed in hallways hot

with closets. Hands like aunts
or fathers, hands as bandages
finding harm by highway    
though we keep a compass    
in the cave of our palms
in case a bomb buried down
in the pavement cuts deep,
makes you cry. Though

you did the best you could.
Christ, we all did.

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