She wears two black bands around her wrists.
They stop the darkness that's seeping from her heart
From bleeding down into her fingertips.
Tourniquets work on depression, too,
Sometimes.

They're black, 'cause, well,
it makes them heavier.
More important, more weighty.
And they keep her hands from flying up
And gouging out her eyes.
Instead, her arms are straight,
Hanging peacefully at her sides,
Though her lethargy holds her limbs captive
As much as any external pressure.

They stretch, so flexible that
The swelling of her joints
Is easily accommodated.
These bands mark the separation of body and soul--
Hands must do their work
Regardless of turmoil surging through
Every other muscle, vein, and bone.
She needs to be reminded of the delineation, though,
Sometimes.

06/19/2002

Posted on 06/19/2002
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