POLITICAL Poem: spades, by Winona Clinnick

the instrument he grips looks fit to cave
or simply disappear. hands blotchy /
destined to economise his strength (only) to leave
(only) debris here —

the bruise is built from cross-hatch —
eyes blank as he looks up, save for black
eights upon the paleness once.

as if magic, too —
the floor has turned
to dust.

and suddenly the music sailing over
must have been imagined / (because)
the craft he cradled carefully was
never made to return / the kindness
of a man who wished to retain

the tenderness
inside, despite.