The Bleak Hand
My father’s bleak hand was ravenous for the glory of blood.
He placed it under his sheets to warm it for action—
What did he do with it once it had reached its
operating temperature?
Well, you know, he placed it in his vest
An arch Napoleon—except more mediocre—
Seeking out his sons, the blind little piglets
Spawned by December’s grease and broken fenceposts
Beat down on the magic, the magic of youth—
One bleak hand with a quota to fill.
The bleakest hand you ever knew,
Marching its shadow across the tobacco fields.
poem by Harold Standish
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