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The Hand

It lifts high into the air above,
from where it was before,
a tool whose sharpness is not love
and has been found in war.

It grips with fingers turning the
color of life''s “To live”,
then, slowly, lowering to take
a life it did not give.

And, like the baby who's removed
from mother's arms, so warm,
it trembles, cries a sea of sweat-
feels cold and uncared for.

Then feels even colder when it
is locked in steel with key.
The Hand will nevermore
become an enemy.

COPYRIGHT 2005 by Michael Bonanno
LOC Reg. #TXu934-647

Reproduction of “The Hand”
or any part therein without
the express written
permission of Michael
Bonanno is prohibited
unless the reproduction
meets The Copyright Act
“fair use” doctrine, (title 17, U. S. Code)..

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                                                                                                                                (and some other assorted foolish verses)