Lonesome Hand Gone

The hand is at rest on the floor now.
On the wood. I sweep around it. Leave it be.
It sleeps there like a dog covered in blood.
Where I find it in the night.
Where it howls.
In it
there once was a gun.

Sure there was. I saw it.

When did my pets become so violent against me?
I had to take them away.
When did they start trying
to massacre me?
I do not want to torture or abuse you, dear,
but you’ll have to stop planning my assassination.

I will not be bladed in my sleep for this.
I will not be shut in the refrigerator like a beet.

My hands are at the ends of my tentacles, just like you;
my eyes are stuck in my head, swimming like
idiot gods.

Nevermind the brain.
It’s as dumb as a bird moving his head in the gutter.
As dumb as a yellow guitar.
Simple as a sidewalk.
It’s a handful of walnuts, shook up
like dice and released
into nowhere.

So, whose hand is that on the floor? You say.

Well, I don’t know.
You’re the one holding the machete.