by The Cowl Editor on November 19, 2021
by Mariela Flores ’23
I fashion a gun out of cold flesh,
and point it directly at my enemy.
There is no hesitation in this kill,
you are at the mercy of my hands.
When the wind turns my bones stiff
and the ground is frozen,
warm hands find my flesh
and thaw my body.
Millions of natives were slaughtered for the shine in their land.
Millions of slaves were drowned on foreign ships and lost in the sand.
Millions were charred in the name of a Man.
Look down to see the weapons of this destruction and you
will find your hands.
There are no words a voice can carry
that capture so movingly what hands can say.
Like birds flying through wicked winds,
or fish floating through thick currents.
Hands push through space loudly with so much to say.
Oh, how wonderful a thing it is to see nothing.
into something, by some hands.