An Ode to Kaz Brekker's Hands
You can dig your gloved hand into my chest, you know.
I swear I won’t mind --
Go on: first a finger, then another.
Coat the black leather in my gore,
you dark feathered thing, you.
Greed is your mercenary, true enough;
it may bow to you. but what of those that won’t?
What of the bloated skin,
and the unrelenting undead?
That’s where you’re human, isn’t it?
In those you tuck under your gloves.
Perhaps when your brother dipped you
in the river Styx, he held you by your hand.
He hasn’t let go yet, has he?
And what of the girl with the knives?
Surely by now,
you know she would sooner hand you her blade
before she would ever scratch you with it?
Do you defy the gospel of Saints
because it so offends you?
Or is it because it is unflinchingly real in the strands of her hair?
And you can never bring yourself to touch her --
no, you're far too broken for that
You’d sooner chop your own hands off.
What’s the matter, Rietveld?
Afraid you’ll never escape your boyhood?
Your hands are the only real thing about you,
and saints do you
despise that.
Hands that are a hybrid tether and murder weapon --
how do you intend on getting out of that sickboat, away from the Reaper’s Barge
with all that weight on you?
And those are just your hands,
we haven’t even gotten to the heart yet;
but then again they are one and the same,
aren’t they?
You may not want to know this but this is what you are:
a sleight of hand.
And she is that which vanishes.
So better get on with it, boy. You’re only half corpse (for now.)
Better swim to harbor (and fast.)
She is still waiting.
Make good use of your hands --
for once.
I swear I won’t mind --
Go on: first a finger, then another.
Coat the black leather in my gore,
you dark feathered thing, you.
Greed is your mercenary, true enough;
it may bow to you. but what of those that won’t?
What of the bloated skin,
and the unrelenting undead?
That’s where you’re human, isn’t it?
In those you tuck under your gloves.
Perhaps when your brother dipped you
in the river Styx, he held you by your hand.
He hasn’t let go yet, has he?
And what of the girl with the knives?
Surely by now,
you know she would sooner hand you her blade
before she would ever scratch you with it?
Do you defy the gospel of Saints
because it so offends you?
Or is it because it is unflinchingly real in the strands of her hair?
And you can never bring yourself to touch her --
no, you're far too broken for that
You’d sooner chop your own hands off.
What’s the matter, Rietveld?
Afraid you’ll never escape your boyhood?
Your hands are the only real thing about you,
and saints do you
despise that.
Hands that are a hybrid tether and murder weapon --
how do you intend on getting out of that sickboat, away from the Reaper’s Barge
with all that weight on you?
And those are just your hands,
we haven’t even gotten to the heart yet;
but then again they are one and the same,
aren’t they?
You may not want to know this but this is what you are:
a sleight of hand.
And she is that which vanishes.
So better get on with it, boy. You’re only half corpse (for now.)
Better swim to harbor (and fast.)
She is still waiting.
Make good use of your hands --
for once.
About the Author
Theo Itchon is a poet from the Philippines, working as a creative writing teacher to the Filipino youth. Their poems have been published in Thimble Lit Magazine, Eunoia Review, Unbroken Journal, and others. Talk to them on Instagram @theoitchon.