Worry
By sam sax
is a woman
burying bread
beneath her lawn.
praying for summer
to make whole loaves
break in their plastic
shells through dirt
like so many hands.
worry is how i thumb
a groove in the stolen
jewel case in my back
pocket at tower
records, the man
puts his hands
on me & i’m cooked,
i’m crooked, red
handed, red thumbed.
had enough money
in my pocket
for music
& who really needs
that bad? all my father’s
overtime stocked
in our pantry.
all my mother’s
edges worried
smooth below
the river of her
boss’s hands.
who am i
who steals music
who sells drugs
because i love
how it sounds.
who sold my own
good mouth
for gold. a man
puts his hands
on me &
i’m his & i’m paid.
in the old country
women buried
what little we had
in the dirt & hoped
it would make more
better on earth.
in this country
all food is unzipped
from its plastic
& passes clean through us.
my grandmother’s
panic is a relic, is bread
unearthed from
some forgotten dust
bowl still dark
& moldy & whole.
why not eat the hand
that feeds you, i think,
why not eat the arm,
the elbow,
the shoulder? why
not eat the whole
damned body alive