i scrub my hands crimson,
this compulsion to cleanse
from invaders and
sin soaking in
my skin –
a violence
not (always) my own.
years ago, taken
to land taken –
(un)settled
at the edges of humanity,
where microbes and tyrants
breed extinction,
breathe death.
they say, cover your mouth for protection!
yet this silence –
harrowing,
swallowing us whole.
what is healing when safekeeping is not promised?
in these ruthless times,
i wash my immigrant hands
raw –
a ritual for safety
against
viruses of all forms.
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