for Evariste, and his family.

I look at my hands, see

they are alive. I look

at the basket,

and see dead hands.

Hands held, posed

for mercy.

Hands held, posed

to survive.

Our enemies are not always

who we are told;

you see, they are the same–

our hands,

these five fingers,

see how they bend,

see how they weave,

the way they sew the future,

the way they brush the cheeks,

of those whom they love.