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 |   a descent into poetry insanity |
| once, a woman despised her right hand. and so she cut it off, and put it in a coffin that she carried ever afterward, sneering at it in its box and opening it to show to her hairdresser, and her girlfriends, and her daughter, and the stranger who missed the bus because she delayed him with her story. and when her daughter was grown and the hand twenty years dead, she asked, but mother, couldn’t you bury it away? put it down and see me—see your grandchildren see the brightness of the sun and feel the touch of honeysuckle on your cheeks— but the woman could not, and her daughter went away to dwell in a far city where her children would not have to hear the story of their grandmother’s hand. and so the woman was alone, and her mouth drew ever downwards because of the constant evil of her hand, and she bruised it and bloodied it, and stared at it all her waking hours until even in her dreams, the hand followed. always. |
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