We give, when giving takes a chunk
Out of us. We give still, knowing that there is a boomerang
We don’t see, making poetic turns in the sky.
Karma, in all her twists and turns, summersaults and dives
Playing a game, of inverses and reversals.
Yet sometimes we give, transcending gain
Or clause or condition or fit. To the very palm
That has only two fingers. To guide the very eye that has no sight.
To donate wheels to the feetless.
Knowing there are baroreceptors
In the drowning eye and a place that cries
Like a nestling, for some worms.
And there’s nothing more dramatic
Than the traffic of tears owning every reason
They are flowing for, and an onion, we call a conscience
That peals itself with her bare hands,
To push little brine drops off an edge.
To remind us who we are
Children of a lesser god.
Armed with a disability, disarming compassion.
