I can’t think of gentler hands
than yours, which strangle death, applauded
Phinehas and his javelin,
hands that held the bursting seed
of atom’s nascent energy (before sonic waves,
before fire was, or sun or star)
while wisdom watched.
I have looked for tenderness elsewhere,
places with fewer wars,
smaller voices, thicker walls,
but in the shaded caves of icy earth
and hell there is little like love.
I don’t know why I search still.
It’s like I hope to find
something to ease my mind when thoughts
of goodness kick its doors
and punch its floors and ceilings.
Did chaos hate you for unfolding
order in her gut, knowing well
that beauty would come forth from her