(Why is it that only this morning while putting on my high-tech Shimano bicycling shoes that I noticed where they were made? Maybe it comes from thinking to the rhythm of the road day after day, but I started to imagine by whose hands. Thinking of Cambodia and its tragic recent history, the changes that have come to many poor countries along with globalization, this poem came to mind.)
Named for the moon,
her child-hands form perfect crescents,
fingers stretched into graceful pinwheels,
tracing celestial pathways, connecting constellations
in the lamplit shadows
Entangled in ageless karma,
her woman-hands repeat perfect stitches,
fingers spread across pliant leather forms,
feeding foreign markets, keeping economies humming
under the flourescent stare
of artificial suns
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