i scrub my hands crimson,
this compulsion to cleanse
from invaders and
sin soaking in
my skin –
a violence
not (always) my own.

years ago, taken
to land taken –


at the edges of humanity,
where microbes and tyrants
breed extinction,
breathe death.

they say, cover your mouth for protection!
yet this silence –
swallowing us whole.

what is healing when safekeeping is not promised?

in these ruthless times,
i wash my immigrant hands
raw –
a ritual for safety
viruses of all forms.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: