Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Kristine Ong Muslim
Nobody complained when we began to sever
our hands so that the next generation would
understand how the hands could incapacitate us.
Washing them could not make them clean enough.
It was bliss: finally, the excuse not to touch.
We were taught to use our eyes alone; the texture
of things was the first natural line of deception.
The machines came and went, took good care of us.
We used our voices to tell them what we wanted.
About Kristine Ong Muslim