This hand I place across that mouth,
It is not unkind.
But rather, it possesses a pink jealousy
And is quite egotistical.
For example, it would sacrifice a plate of vegetables,
A glass of milk,
A flaking piece of baklava,
For you.
The hand is not un-patient, nor is it angry.
But rather, it moves with a grace and ease
That deludes its target
Like a possum on a pole about to be trapped
By two gentleman.
If everything is poison
It has no right to exhale, that mouth,
It has no right to inhale.
And thus the hand, soft and unassuming,
Knows what is Right
And what is Wrong
(Natural law, mon ami.)
I shall not dwell on such things, however,
Instead I shall allow my eyes to be preoccupied
By the shiny things
By the intricacies, the idiosyncrasies, the idiocies
That come to me, like babies
Swathed in old white coats,
Slipping down my throat-
They are so sweet and digestible!
Turning brick into mattress
Knife into loving, stroking, hand.
I close my eyes and all the world drops dead,
I’m out of my head, out of my head.
And this hand, it is now full of rust
Driving it into my mouth, my eyes, my nostrils
Little specks of orange mix with all of my blood
Vitamins now.
It is not unkind, this hand,
And yet it smothers.