To Hold Hands

 

Dorothy spends each Friday morning praying
at sentencing hearings-she thinks God
must not get quite so tired of her while she's
trying to be someone's savior.

She watches the busted beauties,
hands folded, clicking thumbnails,
as they take their seats-
She draws memories for each
One on the back of her hands-
One was stuck in Mexico
with a Urinary Tract Infection,
another lost his job to

 

cries in precise
doses, and does her best to care past
the sicknesses in her stomach.

She sits quietly hands folded,
as they line up, clicks her thumb-nails and
draws memories on the back of her hands-

 

 

She gives each one her own face-
would take sex of addicts,
the piousness of alcoholics, and the pointless
splendor of those wounded with child.

 

 

Once she was stuck in Mexico
with a Urinary Tract Infection and a lover
who lasted only as long as she could
pretend that he was her child.

 

Once she was stuck in Mexico
with a Urinary Tract Infection. She promised
too much and gave in when least profitable-
like a good woman-she knows not to plan
or complain, so lovers last longer, and every
Friday morning there's a voice, God or
judge or junkie, telling her who she can save.

 

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