Backward, our peculiar language.
Mama says, your life are your hands.
Count them. Spoken and leans
back into herself a lone blade
amongst a field. Each grass a palm
A straw hat on the old woman
who stands back to lone house
not smiling. A rake in her hands
Two coconut palm trees--
She would draw concentric circles in sand . . .
What yields in darkness?
A point of surrender.
The still music of captivity.
All the civility of work.