JUST ANOTHER HAND
Just another hand perfecting her form. Keeping
her knees tucked to her chest, her arms above her
head, preparing to plunge into the earth. Ready
to dive wrist-deep into worms, to brandish grainy
chunks of manure. She’ll ignore the smell and the
perpetual line of black residue beneath her nails.
She’ll turn a blind eye to the bubbling calluses and
the crumbling arthritic joints below her fingertips.
Just another foolish hand insisting she has a green
thumb. Painting her nails baby blue so that the flower
might think her honeyed water, so that it might sway
balmily between her fingers. Bathing madly in lavender
and vanilla (so that the blossom might unfurl with her
touch) only to walk swollen and wretched through a twinkling
fog of bees. A crestfallen hand trudging eternally towards an
empty bell jar, a barren translucent womb. (She always saw,
though, the beauty in nonexistent, and therefore undying, petals).
Just another hand on her knees, asking to be sent anywhere but
the hopeless, blistering field. Pleading with the cheap, crackling
wires to send any other message to her muscles. Begging the poet
to stop sending her on endless missions to scrawl futile love songs
across the trees.