Bare Hands
My Uncle Louie beat a man to death with his bare hands, the same hands that now hold my baby in the living room of my newly dead grandmother’s house.
My Uncle Louie beat a man to death with his bare hands, the same hands that now hold my baby in the living room of my newly dead grandmother’s house.
At first I refused to leave the house in a robe in front of the new neighbors, and now it hangs open while I take out the trash.
The old man strolls down Avinguda Gaudi, shopping sack in hand, unburdened by clothing. He seems perfectly decent with his trim, white beard and hairless torso.
The lava, which is all the colours of a human heart, flows away into holes between cobbles and into drains, along gutters, out of the town square, out of the town.
He’s swimming upstream again, dogged and lean, ready to spawn his latest ideas. I wonder aloud if perhaps he doesn’t need to have all the answers.