1 minute read
CAPTIVE
iAM POETRY 2020 CAPTIVE
His hand, a maze, stained with metallic bruises. Nails run jagged. Fingers solid enough to put out my flames. His hands are half mine and pale. I ask him for the songs they play, and the sand they graze in a land that bleeds copper. They carry stories told only in hushes. I carry his bruises in homes built with empty stomachs. He can’t see me. His bifocals smudged with clouds of smoke. Pupils of smog. His hands are desperate to clean the fog before I wake. He is eager to dial me home. I am eager for his war to end. His hands carry cigarettes and long for the reach of mine. Carrying seeds of desolate and delicate. Our pace is simple.
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Home exists in the spaces of his silence. Only, it is in his hands that I see a captive.
