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Grace
that same path—red clay
covered with cinders
—she carried the roses
I’d sent her—white, yellow, and red
—clutched to her bosom
my happiness
—a place we’d sprung from!
a country given to burying
its heroes facedown
in the ground—like tulip
bulbs their feet
would sprout—many faces
deep, congregations
of supplicants came
at odd hours of morning
to sprinkle these toes
with oil and lemon
so that nails would hang
limply as they grew
—I watched her walking
dripping roses
petals mixing with cinders
then clutched her to me
expecting
Hands
when I hold your hands
it's love
when I hold my hands
it's prayer
I feel my fingers slip
through my fingers
when I let go
I want to hold my hands up
up to offer something
because my fingers slip
through each other and flesh
feels
so much like flesh that I want
to offer something up
up because flesh could slip
forever
so my hands hold each other
again
hard
because I'm afraid
and I love your hands
Somme
just then I died
or passed out
every thing came clear
what to do
how to be
where to go
see?
all these big answers
then I got
kaput
(not haywire
I had wired
but who's to know)
son
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