White and Cold

There are reasons why
your hands are white
and cold. What have
you held and who is
holding you? Take note

from soil clinging to
its trees and flowers;
how it swallows, mourns
its dead by building
more. Or the sea

that wide-mouthed lion
devouring its offspring
regurgitating seals and
seaweed on the grave of
littered, rancid shores.

Now our bones picked over
in the pile, reserve no sense
of heat, desire. It is hands,
the heart, their constant need
for flame and fire.

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