A Hand

No man can fleet-foot the catch of time:

There’s a hand that reaches out, finger-twine

Of hands once bound in the threshing line,

Hands that recall a plantation rhyme.


’Tis a hand loosed from the manacled crowd;

’Scaped from that caustic whipping sound.

Cold hard blisters, callous-proud,

Forensic finger of this reeky night, this obsidian shroud.


A hand gloved in the name of foreign folk

Seeking out the master’s cloak.

’Tis a Frankenstein that knows not to stroke;

But only, in finding, to curl fingers and choke.

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One thought on “A Hand

  1. Excellent post today. I ready enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing and see you around!

    Here is a great poem to check out:

    The Voice Inside Me

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