The Light Switch
On the west coast of Canada
a human hand has washed ashore.
It’s the sixth case in eleven months
and the second in under forty-eight hours.
The sixth hand is a right hand just like
the first four hands. The fifth hand, found
on a Monday, was the first left hand. The third
hand was found near the second. It’s as yet unclear
if the fifth hand pairs with any of the right hands.
It remains a mystery who the six human
hands belong to.
Not to the same person – that’s for sure.
What to do? Little else to do.
Read the news, masturbate,
watch a documentary on TV.
No, not on the world food crisis,
(that’s old hat old boots no job)
the most luxurious hotel in the world.
No, some asylum seeker
after some twenty-three years
returns to Romania where
the people speak a language
practically everything rhymes.
After the commercial break, his
(the Romanian’s) hand presses against
the old front door and then (and this amazes me):
his hand infallibly slides round the doorframe
and blindly insinuates
its way clear of the vigilant walls
with the self-assurance of a back pocket
and the brevity of life stuffed deep inside.
someone who has been far away from home
for a long time can still find the light switch.
Instantly. Like someone.
He is on his way to her house
a ticking bomb strapped to his back
and just in case a sketchbook and some gin.
And when he’s gone finally finally
she unpeels her fists
smooth as milk
light floods the room.
(the curtains are indigo blue and let the sky through)
When she fell asleep it was noon.
While the room
the room carries on.