An editor friend suggested I rewrite the opening poem of Body Magick as a prose poem rather than the free-verse version, since the poetry format puts some people off. Here it is:
ODE
The Hand
The old man we called The Hand inscribed his thoughts upon every surface in our town: from the tallest rooftops to the deepest crevices, he adorned our walls with an abundance of words. With fervor, he wielded paints, pencils, and pens, scribbling phrases with knives, sharp stones, and even bone. With his weathered fingers, he dabbled and daubed poetry, using mud, blood, sweet juice, and remnants of pie.
The Hand wove together poetry and prose upon our walls; he crafted shopping lists and bucket lists on the weathered doors; chronicled history, spun predictions, and conjured fictions on crumbling chimneys; sonnets blossomed on monuments, drama dripped from the outhouse walls—a canvas that embraced every space, inside and out. Thatch was meticulously rewoven by moonlight’s glow, as words slithered and leaked, wetly cascading onto bedroom floors. He delighted in painting curse words, bright colors splashed on the wings of passing migratory birds. He ominously wrote “Suddenly, there’s bears!” as if it were a warning echoing down the Midwife’s worn stairs.
In due time, he inscribed on our very bodies as well: tattooing our skin from head to toe, and even to tail. Hide-and-seek is no longer a mere game our children play: it has morphed into our everyday reality, as gossamer graffiti of bodies wanders through our vibrant, graffiti-laden streets.
The old man we called The Hand wrote his way into the very fabric of our lives for countless years, until the day he died. We discovered his lettered body by smell, leaning lifeless against the old, lettered well. His lettered bones lie there still, a silent testament to the words that once breathed life into our world.
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