Swollen Hands
A mindful poem
I was uncovered, finally,
predisposed to the cold,
it was not some depression,
in my scalp,
only the light of truth,
reflecting off silk webs,
I was chilling on the roof,
with my brother,
catching shadows,
off telephone poles at sunset,
now, I begin to feel the southern rain,
but there is warmth in knowing,
from within, I can still see,
through the blinds,
the cozy proximity through time
to the freedom practice, always,
I continue my relationship,
to the rain, but in the shower,
these hours don’t run me,
they’re under blankets,
by an ember’s embrace,
unclenched; drier, my red fist,
there is freedom to rain-dance,
and need to retire.
This is the first poem, “Swollen Hands (fka. freedom practice),” from my seventh poetry collection, the lint.
— Chicano poet from Southern California
