Writing

the golden hand woman (the poem in my head for a week)

the golden hand woman (the poem in my head for a week)


the golden hand woman ——— of which I have only memories

lives in chairs and beds ——— from hands they took away

with her head cocked ——— all that was too much to lift

she cannot hear us ——— she reads our lips

for our screams descend ——— and cries softly

like whispers to the ocean ——— where her memories live

my inner ocean ——— her inner ocean

rocks itself gently to nothing ——— stirs to a thundering

as the empty poetry ——— crashing of words and people

swells into empty thought ——— evaporating into no one

and the ocean ——— and her ocean

rises past the shore ——— rises past the shore

and into the ark ——— and into the heavens

where god _______ ——— where god _______

i wonder if the golden hand woman knew her gold was really iron

or if she knew that mine was mercury

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