#every touch is a modified blow

Mother, tell me

what you remember of another man’s hand

reaching into your throat

like a night-frozen glove: how warm

was it? Was it him with the words

of a god beaded over his lips like sweat? For

the wounded is someone touched

& entered with the weapon we shape

into fingerprints: no matter how wrecked

or soft: we return to the field

wrapped in this one name

under god: rejoice rejoice, say the hand-

bones that want the heft of memory:

for I am a decade: a century

of openmouthed thirst

even as the snow keeps falling—

& falling through:

- Michael Wasson, Self-Portrait As Collected Bones [Rejoice Rejoice]

hieu minh nguyen, from “staying quiet”/ anders krisár, the birth of us (boy),the birth of us (girl)