Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Donald Wellman, "Hands"


When he reached out to receive me, I recognized 

his hands as mine. Short fingers and square palms.


I had seen similar hands in a photo of a mestiza mother by Tina Modotti.


The woman cradled her brown skinned child’s bottom,

chunky quadrilaterals


as if elements


of a Mayan glyph.


Oblong breasts pillowed his face.


I’ve slept on the lawn at Tulum


and heard the drone of Ah Muzen Cab.


Fermented honey inspired the poets of Heorot


and the poets of the Talamanca and Penobscot.


In a crevice within a garden wall


in Liberia, Melipone costarricense produce


treasured miel de jicote.


Beekeeper gods sing to a honey pot, h
eld like a bass drum, Mol Ko Chi’.


Of bearded jaguars, it is said, many ancestors display


a pencil thin mustache. Of native American square hands, she wrote


in her ethnography of California Mission Indians:


bad Indians who beat their children,


tender Indians who cried from fear,


seeking a source in caves and mountain tops.


They fled to survive, as I have, inwardly, across the river bottom.


A cloud, melanin pigmentation on the retina is also common.



(written in response to Bad Indians by Deborah A. Miranda, Heyday, 2013)

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