The Left

The left

isn’t the other

hand, it’s the one

that’s

the shadow-figure

outside the doorway—

always hovering, always near,

but instructed without edict

not to present itself.

Summoned ritually to bathe

the backside

it crouches like a Brahmin

drowning himself in dirty water

to expunge the sins of another life.

Then

after washing itself sombrely

it goes to a secluded place

where there’s no danger

of being touched or noticed.