Suppose the Function Is Praise

When doctors have given their final shot
or volleys rocket insomniac¹ dark, without thought, liftyour hands. In strobing raids, at pepper spray, with cheek
to asphalt, at fault or not, go on, lift your hands. And standthough gravel² erodes³ to sea, don’t grovel⁴ or stop
as the chopper kicks sand, or knife unleashes⁵ shockand flow—unaided, blood rises—so lift your hands,
given this heart’s un-assisted pump, no matter the lackof water to quench⁶ a jigsaw⁷ of dirt, the belly⁸ distended—lift
your hands at the child unplanned who you cannot nurse,then at the curse of also-ran and lift your hands, when
the only man you’ll ever love has a son with someone else.Or a husband no longer knows the name of the one
you raised together: now, raise a glass instead.This is occasion for champagne⁹, for all the aspirin¹⁰
a body can take, for the glint of a chemical sunset’s blaze,and licking high-fructose glaze¹¹ off those same fingers, just—
lift them now in don’t shoot please, in fluid go, to save my feet,at mile sixty when gas burns clean and you’ve made it
past your dead-end streets, with a single albumof soul on repeat—lift your hands, at the great unknown,
the bank account’s mawing O—however infinitesimalthe means become or waist will cinch—infinite—
the ways to lift our hands, to coax¹² them overhead—                                                   limitless, our approach.