Kafka’s hands spread in ancient Jewish priest-like style,
but they don’t touch as he dies of tuberculosis.
Kafka’s hands scribble Joseph K’s trial
during the night in the Golden Alley,
that room he rents because keeping the light on all night
disturbs his family. His hands spread to ease
his scrawling pain. He hacks into his monogrammed
hankie and red rivulets punctuate his scratches.
Kafka’s hands spread to grip the handles
of his uncle’s motorbike. He rumbles
through Old Town to meet his cronies
at whatever pub they’ve chosen for the evening.
Kafka’s hands spread at Café Louvre
to hoist a few. They spread at Kavárna Arco
to congratulate himself on his promotion. His hands
spread to stoke Karl Rossman pages of Amerika
at Shakespeare & Co. Kafka’s Fraktur breath
reeks of beer and death. His hands spread
across the sign of the Franz Kafka Café to bless
plates of schnitzel. His hands spread among
Golem trinkets for tourists,
in Wenceslas Square to insure Gregor Samsa.
Kafka’s hands spread at his museum,
his autographed homage to himself in Franz Kafka Square.
Kafka’s hands spread on bronzed headless man
shoulders on which he rides in Old Town.
They fold at his grave in New Cemetery
from underneath the stones and notes.
