Whose hands are these I think I know.
In my pants, in the neon glow
of the THRASHER sign above

the toilet, summer is just beginning
to swelter. “No Hands” is …

I know it scares you when I say I’m not afraid to die.

Still, you go on listening,
as birds plummet into the grass—fortune
teller, pharmacist, archangel, swan—

who taught me …

Mother woke
before early, daily
tired Black
and white uni-
form sore feet
dish rag hands
cooked mornings
for her family
powdered her cheeks
with Aunt Jemima,
and applied Mrs. …

quick recoil as heatwave
tries to coax me
my bedroom, a sun-sluiced
temple

outside, maulvis
and bootleggers
cross paths
crisp, orange sky
waxy dawn
rising behind clouds
sister syncs the color