Handshakes and Cradles

Sweet babe in the imagined future world:

The cradle is your grave,
later, the handshake your slave.

You put upon the friends you
represent, pull apart the pill,
in bathwater, smoking still,
around the feather bed, around
the graves.

The handshake hands wash and
glide away, like a bird of somber
prey, pray your hands today
cradle may the grave be, your
handshakes stay slaves.

Represent your honor, knave;
pull apart the pill to the smoky,
undeniable scent, put upon yourself for
another day, another daughter,
another heart in handshake travelled…

…through the feathers, through the
handshakes, through the smoky,
sleeping, dreaming glade…

…your cradle,
slave.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *