Tuesday, November 09, 2004

poem : arms

a ghazal

people say our stories are sticky, restless arms
careful when placing them in the crook of our arms

like notes found in a back pocket, the creases
never undone : that first lover forever forming our arms

the plants don’t repot themselves, need the directive:
knees to the ground, the world of roots resting in arms

sacks of potatoes, plastic bags full of rice and bread
stuffers between pay checks, how we hold our arms

the war rages on, despite declared victory
why must our young work around menacing arms?

poor-sighted sleepwalkers move their glasses to other
places, leave the task of searching to sightful arms

small pillows on the sleeves of skin that are her arms
she holds memory like a nighttime rain, in her arms