(16) Hands

(16) Hands

These hands were made for more than this--
these hands, like anger,
created to remake the world,
and yet we mostly twirl our thumbs,
spin in our own circles,
tame our rage to mild irritation
against only that injustice
which happens to touch us.
But these hands were made for more than this.
Our anger was made to indicate humanity's worst evils,
to trace it as it moves through human systems,
and to paint, then boldly raise the banner
that could mark our way back home...
but no,
we only train our anger to make cruel cartoons
of fellow human beings who we 'just don't get along with'.
Can't we think of anything better to do
with this... rage?
Yes--
we could tear the facade from the faces
of those who masquerade as saints
while taking from the 'least of these,'
we could disassemble every idol
that has bent our human dignity...
but it's just like they say--
idle hands are Satan's favorite place to play
and so he hands us idles,
shiny things to keep us occupied,
hoping we don't notice we could crush them
in an instant,
If we'd reach our angry fingers
we could take down our worst myths--
redemption via violence,
excess as a measure of success,
humans being viewed as utilities,
we could make the world tell honest stories,
songs which sing humanity's great suffering;
we can join these hands and stand in solidarity,
but we stay separate
in resentment
that our hands cannot stretch wide enough
our anger can't reach far enough to catch a broken world alone,
so we replace relationship with emptiness,
we curl our anger on itself until it's bitterness,
bitterness like fists that only prick the skin that holds it;
bitterness like fists, it only exists as long as you hold it;
let go...
Because these hands were made for more,
and you don't have to go too far to figure out what for,
cause just two houses down from you,
there's a little kid who isn't even flinching
when his father calls him that
because he's used to it,
and so he needs you to be angry.
Two towns down the freeway
there's a man who grows food for your family
just to go home empty-handed to his own,
he needs you to be angry;
two cities over there's a girl who's being told
it was her fault for walking home alone at night,
and she is staring to believe it,
she needs you to be angry;
they need us to be angry,
cause in those times when they're too tired to raise their hands to shield their faces,
they need someone brave enough to catch the rocks that people throw at them,
to get between them and the enemy and just say 'stop',
and our fury could unbind their own,
so we can join our hands with theirs and lift them high,
so they will see that we were here,
we were living, feeling human beings,
and yes, we were angry
together.