Praying Mantis

For O.

Photo by Om Prakash Sethia on Unsplash

Praying
Man,
‘tis

in the clasp
of your hands
your portion:
your piece of and in this world
your peace in and with this world
lodged in callouses and ash
and creases that wander
like fine cracks in clay pots

‘tis

in the clasp
of your hands
the squeeze:
the tight trembling one that holds secrets
about the veins in your miles
about the mouth of your veins
that roared in wars
from the arctic’s bloodshed hills
through the jungles of somewhere
through the jungles of nowhere
then back to the shrills of poverty
and the ditches of the South’s crows
that stymied black tattered britches

‘tis

in the clasp
of your hands
her heart:
hers and hers only welded in yours
for sixty-some-odd unbreakable years
through great romance and great-grands
through great languishment…