Worry by Sam Sax

Worry

is a woman

burying bread

beneath her lawn.

praying for summer

to make whole loaves

break in their plastic

shells through dirt

like so many hands.

worry is how i thumb

a groove in the stolen

jewel case in my back

pocket at tower

records, the man

puts his hands

on me & i’m cooked,

i’m crooked, red

handed, red thumbed.

had enough money

in my pocket

for music

& who really needs

that bad? all my father’s

overtime stocked

in our pantry.

all my mother’s

edges worried

smooth below

the river of her

boss’s hands.

who am i

who steals music

who sells drugs

because i love

how it sounds.

who sold my own

good mouth

for gold. a man

puts his hands

on me &

i’m his & i’m paid.

in the old country

women buried

what little we had

in the dirt & hoped

it would make more

better on earth.

in this country

all food is unzipped

from its plastic

& passes clean through us.

my grandmother’s

panic is a relic, is bread

unearthed from

some forgotten dust

bowl still dark

& moldy & whole.

why not eat the hand

that feeds you, i think,

why not eat the arm,

the elbow,

the shoulder? why

not eat the whole

damned body alive