domestic disemboident 

in the town made of hands 
even a door knob 
is a warm fist--even a staircase 
could grab you.
my bed, a nest of palms, holds me.
all the fingernails 
with their opalescent shine.
gleam of a nightlight glowing hand.
the walls of my house 
have wrinkled knuckles
& the bathtub prunes
from a recent shower. 
i am not alone at all except
entirely alone. not a single 
mouth in sight. i walk out
onto the sidewalk: back of hands 
& i ask the wrists 
where the bodies live. 
elsewhere? healthy bodies
running across trails 
of solid earth & gravel.
i want to have a healthy body
no longer made of flies.
sometimes my heart escapes
& eats a handful of blueberries.
sometimes i try to escape
& i cry & cry hoping
the hands will wave & say
"hello you are not alone
in your body." but i am
here i am with all my joint
& all my fears. who will
save my from my lungs?
who will pour nectar down my throat.
i breathe in a mouthful
of july & i hold my breath,
counting to ten. i am scared
of dying with only the hands
to watch me. would they take my body
& teach me how to be
only a hand? would another boy
end up in this town
with all his sadness & all his pacing?
who is less trapped than who?
where will you take me?
a hand from the wall
brushes my cheek 
with the cool back
of the hand. i feel the knuckles
& the bones 
& the three little hairs.

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