The Wounded Hands Inside Our Pockets
i've been trying to figure out the cause of your sorrow.
by RIC BASTASA
it starts with so much love. It takes a step. It whispers.
No one hears. So you grow a set of four hands. Two for you.
You keep them secretly in your pocket.
The other two are birds. You set them to a flight looking for
Love. There is no island where their feet can land.
They become the winds.They change from time to time.
Hoping that someone may like the shape that they are assuming.
But no one likes it. Weird they say. Your wings are not soft.
The songs are different.
And then your hands come back to you. They prefer the other two hands.
Hiding in your pockets. Shrinking.
They confess. They scream. Love has been unfair. It seeks sameness.
It separates you from the rest of the world.
You spell loneliness to the emptiness of space. It is shapeless.
Looking for a house. A container.
i have figured it too well. And you are not surprised.
We have the same wounded hands. We like to love everyone.
Inside our pockets. Dark, close.Frozen.