The Golden Head

I split your hand in two
and take one half away
to the mostly empty space
where an older woman
coos and draws a map of dashes.

This woman struck me,

she clapped during the silence,
as she lay an animal to rest.

I pretend I've had enough
and walk to the porch
on the other side of your house.
Half of your hand is not enough I think

and go back to her.
A patient and uncompromising season.

But I went back to you first
and you told me that your hand was bleeding.

Take this I said handing you your hand.
That's only half of my hand you said.
But you've always been open to that possibility I said.

You keep a liquid element in your shoes
and feel tired at the sight of me.

I remind you of a minor accident
By the freeway last night.
Someone who had lost two hands

Hit someone who was looking for a drop-box.
The woman was there and she exclaimed
that there are four parts to every empty space.

I think I overheard her
as I was rolling down my window to say hello to you
while you were whistling at a hurricane speed,
dividing the world between cool and between warm.