if you are naked
i’ll undress the moon for you
and i'll spoon her too (for you)
and if you are tired
i’ll make the bed for you
if you are hungry
i’ll cook my head for you
and you'll have to let it sit there
and you'll have to let it bleed
and I'll row your boat (for you)
gently down the stream

As a toddler my mom taught me
to use hands for games,
Patty cake, patty cake,
We had so much fun.

In 1st grade Mrs. Z taught me about hands.
The big hand represents the hours,
The small hand is for minutes,
And that skinny red one counts the seconds.

In high school Sarah Kay taught me
about holding hands, and hand models
She said "I read hands to tell your past."
Hands learn she said to me.

A coworker taught me to speak with hands.
Thumb in, 4 fingers up, thats "B" she said.
We could talk without moving our lips,
It was magic.

No one taught me the importance of hands,
Though.

The way you need to stretch your hands,
Reach out to the world and say,
"Here. Grab on, I won't let you fall"

How to make my hands, helping hands.
The kind with strong cracks and callouses
But they have a soft touch, gentle hands.

Hands that can stand the beating of
Negativity
Hatred
Rejection.

Hands that stay open,
Ready to accept whatever...
Gifts
The world gives them.

I want to learn how to use my hands,
To inspire a nation.

Who will teach me?

The prison bus
passes this way

every now and then,
surfacing without

warning—a leviathan
of metal, grease, and glass

its dark windows secured
by squares of rusted wire

its diesel engine heart
spewing exhaust that

turns morning rain
the color of seawater.

The prison bus
does not stop
for stop signs;

red lights are nothing
but violent memories
strung in an overcast sky.

When the bus strikes
something in its path

the prisoners bounce
slightly in their seats,

lifted into
impartial air

liberated
momentarily

by the familiar
co-conspirators
of blood and laughter.

In his dreams,
the guard who
drives the prison bus
circumnavigates the globe,
plowing through clouds
of insects that shimmer
like fuel above the road.

for someone who was never
meant for this world,
I must confess
I'm suddenly having a
hard time leaving it.

of course they say
every atom in our bodies
was once part of a star.

maybe I'm not leaving.
maybe I'm going home.

lightening doodles
night and city lights dissolve,
more or less than than real?

of all the people
that cross my mind
when it came to you
my brain was blind

i write of pain
of hate and regret
but how about about
the first time we met

rain down windows
mascara down face
but next to you
i think I found my place

clouds didn't pass
the rain wouldn't leave
but the thought of you
i could do anything but grieve

and so i haven't wrote
about you yet
and of all the times
i hope never to forget