by June Sylvester Saraceno
There are so many outstretched hands
and I can only pretend not to see for so long
before I end up running into walls, or worse.
The siren wails like a babe with no bottle
so that I'm wishing myself invisible or earless.
Why didn't I bring the smell of jasmine
or a throat lozenge to soothe the air?
Forgive this empty-handed gesture,
I didn't pack well.
Even before I lost the handle,
then later the baggage itself,
I had no tea, no thyme, no confitures,
no moon, nor hare, nor hide
not even a shell to place inside
your proffered palm.
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