But I cannot see the face that belongs to that hand,
And that causes a flood of divergent thoughts
To nearly wash me away in my crimson stream.
Oh that hand!
Had it been able to stop the shooter’s game?
Had it been there before those shots in time?
I felt so much joy at seeing help there,
Wanting to pick my body up off the concrete,
Because in my brokenness, I had no way to move on my own.
Oh that hand!
I can now rise & walk again.
I can now be cleansed of this blood of mine.
But maybe, just maybe
That hand is the shooter’s.
So doesn’t that mean (and, oh, I hope not),
The shooter is still here?
Oh that hand!
That hand of hurt & hand of pain.
That hand of help! Shooter, is it thine?
And I still cannot see that face!
APN
Copyright 10/15/2006