These Hands Must Speak

These hands measure the distance.
These hands put on a mask.
These hands wash frequently.

These hands scroll the screen,
witness leaders who only mask
what they say, call this a hoax.
Their legislation a sleight of hand,
coffers quickly emptied of
funds for small businesses
onto the desks of overpaid elite.

Each day these hands
brush the hair of nurses,
caregivers, service workers
putting their lives, their children’s lives,
their families’ lives in danger
while businesses cut their pay.

These hands reach in solidarity.
These hands want to pull out the viral
tangles and twists of injustice.
Who is caring for the people?
Who is speaking for the people?

For as long as history accounts,
these working hands pack
and parcel, bathe and bundle,
face violence, fight fires,
lug and lift. Hands in service
save bloody broken bodies.
When will these hands be spared
the throes of infectious corruption?

These hands scribe for the poet,
mark a voice for this time, and
must speak of the incessant threat.

These hands go to the garden,
dig, talk to the earth,
fingers braille in the soil.

Rebecca Ramsden, a retired registered nurse, is the guts behind Poets Chair, where she previously posted about her journeys on social media. Pre-COVID she traveled to vast spaces in the wild to find herself while practicing who she wants to become. Publications include Martin Lake Journal and Talking Stick Vol 23 & 25, and she was winner of the Creekside Poetry Contest.  Currently, she is sheltering alone at home in Minnesota, finding gratitude in community, the practice of writing, and solace working in the garden.