Black Hand - Anita Lipnicka, John Porter

His black hand

On my white belly

And I can’t even pronounce his name

The saxophone

Keeps on playing

Origami birds fly above my head

I’m 15

And I miss home

But only happy letters get across the sea

If not your eyes

That saw it all

I could easily pretend it was just a dream

Dear Anna

It’s good you don’t keep in touch

How would we talk about it now?