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 adopted
appendage, I treasured it as if
it had grown in the garden part
of me. I swaddled it in gauze,
made a tiny mummy, tied a bonnet
on top. No one would know the truth.
They’d mistake the fingertips
for small shut eyes, they'd see
a thumb-shaped nose. I rocked
the hand to sleep, kissed it,
held it by the sharp stuck-out
wrist bone like a lollipop.
Then, I tied the hand to me
with a linen sling, I wore
the hand like a pledge.
It left a veil of flour
on my heartbeat spot.
The flour turned my breasts
to bread. I tried to wake
the baby hand by singing.
I sang a song about hunger.
I whispered, my breasts are made
of bread, Baby Hand, you
can have some.