The Beautiful Hand...

...and the Things That Fell From the Earth
(Part I. Maybe)


When I was young I learned to measure
by leaps and bounds
by inches and slices of what was left
of cinnamon’s bread…

The fields of some were countless in their splendor
and for them hope
stacked upon itself
along the shelf

Some are dealt the beautiful hand

But there are those for whom
the rulers mark out only in the lashes
of Sunday’s blood
shed not for anyone
but wiped upon an apron

For them I have no answers
for the black fortune that infests the nights
Darcy and the summer dawn fall
to the street to eat
pushed beyond what she can count
can hold
can bear
can measure
and the voice of mama (nearly dead) sings
the lullabies of never enough

You were never enough
(you’re told)
and what does is matter if it was never true
her ruler measures you still

Oilgraph on masonite 45x28
Created in ritual performance 2001