Karina Guardiola-L Poetry

He sits in his grandmother’s rocking chair,
writing with his left hand, unnaturally,
sitting across a painting of
arms wrestling between the smoke,
bruised hands, bloody hands,
hands that worked all day hands,
hands in fists, fighting through the smog.

Inside a building, with right hands stretched out,
are many men in the big black boots, and hats,
holding big black books,
crowds in rows wait for them,
tired mothers and children, hopeless seniors,
the sick and handicapped hidden inside the dark.
A curious child peeks through a broken window.

Millions of six pointed stars bundled and burn,
book pages and prayers shawls buried 6 feet,
strings of curls lying in a corner,
fathers and husbands outside in lines, duct taped mouths,
while waiting for a signal, staring into the heavens,
their eyes look up, and meet with the little boy
outside sitting the painting, sitting in his grandmother’s rocking chair.

Poet: Karina Guardiola-L