Poems on Politics
Because of Hands and Bread
Left hands out of the bus window
wrists, palms, fingers
cannot reach the loaves of bread
offered by a right hand.
Where are your
bodies, your faces, and your mouths?
Your hand hand hand
reflected on the side of the bus
like a forest in the river.
Go home now.
Soon the bus will leave
and this will be the beginning of your exile.
You will lose the keys to your houses.
You will forget the names of trees and flowers.
Your hands cut off at the wrists
will float in the Great Blue River
with tree trunks, split buses.
Downstream — under the Memorial Bridge
your hands will wave to other hands.
Hands hands hands
like your own
swollen and toy-like.
This is the beginning of your exile.
:: Design by Waterman
:: Logo woodcut by Barbara Leventhal-Stern
