Dead hands by Donna Snyder

The dead reach out across the desert,
burned like bricks by the enemy sun.

Beyond the corpses,
a litter of bottles emptied of life
makes a trail to the border with its gaudy signs.

Down the highway,
a panel truck hides its contraband behind a locked door.
Inside the odor of bodies warns the night sky
to open its arms to death’s bounty.

The desert stretches,
a merciless sea of boiled blood waiting for the coming sun.

Only the desperate
believe the lies of the coyote.
(Coyote tricked the Holy Ones out of their fire
and gave it to the People along with this scorched earth.)

Somewhere the names of workers are written
like beads between fingers.

Somewhere fields still and quiet
wait for dead hands to harvest poisoned fruit.

Published in the collection Poemas ante el Catafalco:  Grief and Renewal (Chimbarazu Press:  New York, New York 2014).  Previously published in Chrysalis, Unlikely Stories 2.0, and Boboland Cronicas.

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