h a n d s
have built the
world. They are hard,
skin broken, sand paper,
wide nails, to struggle. They are
not hands that can caress, but they
do know how to greet, indicate, wield, a long
list of facts they can achieve in full their functions.
They’re hands for timber, ready to use, don’t
know how to stay still, without destination,
without any translation. Yet those hands
have open the body of a future mother
wide, they crossed thresholds, they
welcomed the priest’s host,
very long ago. They are
solid holds that raised me, and
when it was time, they came down violently.
Useless to revive the pages of the past, what is extinct
changes with every test: we know, history is a feral beast