by Troy Cady
The hands that cracked my leg and break the bread
are these that made (and make) my heart. The hands
that brush my cheek are those that weigh the sands
of all the lands in all the seas and led
me, held me tight, through war, to Fire and Red,
rough lakes. These hands sent plagues and carved commands,
yet held a spike, through palm and blood demands.
These hands chop down my knees and lift my head.
These hands bore Time, but have coarse skin, deep lines,
fine dirt, rich veins. They give and take, and heal,
and wake the dead from coffin's keep. They grasp
the light and thrust a spear, yet grope to find
the thin lost coin in corners dark. They feel,
and save, hot tears; yet squeeze—and kill—the asp.