I Carried His Hand

I dreamt that a giant stork–with noble cotton wings,delivered his hand to me.The beak opened like tongs,to drop the hand into my lap.This un-labored thing, my adoptedappendage, I treasured it as ifit had grown in the garden partof me. I swaddled it in gauze,made a tiny mummy, tied a bonneton top. No one would know the truth.They’d mistake the fingertipsfor small shut eyes, they'd seea thumb-shaped nose. I rockedthe hand to sleep, kissed it,held it by the sharp stuck-outwrist bone like a lollipop.Then, I tied the hand to mewith a linen sling, I worethe hand like a pledge.It left a veil of flouron my heartbeat spot.The flour turned my breaststo bread. I tried to wakethe baby hand by singing.I sang a song about hunger.I whispered, my breasts are madeof bread, Baby Hand, youcan have some.