My Hands

My hands do a poor job
Of soaking up blood
And tucking intestines
Back where they belong,
They are worse still
At stopping bulldozers
From running over
My kiosk to make
Way for development,
They can’t protect my eyes
From the acid sting
Of tear gas,
Or my skull from the drumming
Of the police man’s baton,
They are no match for bombs.
Neither can they raise my son
Dead without a diagnosis,
In a dim hut,
My hands are useless,
Until now.
They find use
As a clenched fist
A declaration of faith
In the coming revolution,
A statement without words
And by God, will I raise them high.