by The Cowl Editor on November 19, 2021

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Poetry

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by Mariela Flores ’23

ONE 

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.   

 

TWO 

When the wind turns my bones stiff  

and the ground is frozen,  

warm hands find my flesh  

and thaw my body.  

 

THREE 

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.  

 

FOUR 

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.  

 

FIVE

Oh, how wonderful a thing it is to see nothing.  

Nothing carved   

nothing molded  

nothing sculpted  

into something, by some hands.