Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A child bit away my fingerprints; now I take refuge in snake moves. I have at least two hands, sometimes thousands, all anonymous but open. Arm movements are my most accessible identity. Villagers approach on tiptoe. They can't remember whether round eyes mean poison, or if slit eyes do. Venom is not in my bag of tricks, but I appreciate their caution. I synchronize two arms, a thousand, in a cold-blooded trance. Then the show is over. The villagers go back to their shopping carts. I'm okay walking home. The moon understands.