Sometimes our hands are all we have
The clenched face
The bent limbs
Battered by a thousand hurricanes
Of bullets
A single broken blade of green
"…broken femur…transport…black male…seven years old..."
snapped by a sedan rounding a corner
a crossroads well traveled
their blackened boots and brazen stares
accessories
the hardened giants walk
silently into a tiny house on a holy night
it might as well be
made of straw and sticks
a cop lifts the boy up in his arms
holds him to blue skin
and brass
caresses the lithe arm
as the EMT's strip him bare
uniformly human
the tinsel tossed lonely limb hangs loose and limp
Wet with silverish sheets of blood
the fish have no air
they flit like faith
tendrils of red
floating falsetto
high above the greenery
in the darkened
fish tank
impressions of tiny fingers paint
the officer's forearm radioflyer red
Today, the breath of God is thick
and foggy with weight of the cross
adorned with the jingle of cuffs and change
a snowy chill capping
a mountain of a man
as he holds
small clinched fingers
like the last star waiting for Christmas
white and wanting
as sparkles and snow
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