Painted Hands

Bright blue eyes find mine,
clear as an open window.
A silent knowing lingers:
I am mother,
a sanctuary.

Paint-soaked hands reach for mine,
a mural of joy.
Red seeps into my skin.
Red of autumn leaves.
Red of spring strawberries.
Red stitched through the flag.
Red spilled in silence—
a voice cut off before it could speak.
Never the red
that stains the halls,
the podium,
the street.

But today that red
is not paint,
not autumn,
not cloth.
Today the news runs red.
Classrooms crumble,
sirens split the air.
Squares fill with screams,
voices silenced
before they can rise.

And yet I am left
with tiny hands,
hands made to create,
voices longing to sing.
I whisper life:
Do not be afraid.
Let your light shine.

Yet I fear.
I fear classrooms built to cradle them.
I fear the sirens swallowing every word.
I fear a trigger faster than a tongue.

I want to scream.
Instead, I meet their eyes,
gather their hands.
I whisper:
Hush.
Hide.
Live.

Yet how can we stay silent?
Would not our hands
be stained with theirs?
The prophets wept:
blood in the land.
Abel’s cry burns
from the ground.

Now I hear it—
in the classroom,
in the square,
from pulpits that thunder
only silence.
The earth drinks their blood.
The watchmen sleep.
The tombs stay shut.
And we keep quiet.

O daughters of mine,
there is another blood
that speaks louder.
Do not mistake silence
for safety.
Your hands were made to create.
Your voices will rise like trumpets.
You will speak for the voiceless.
You will defend the innocent.

My children, cling to this:
a scarlet thread through history,
blood poured for you,
the blood of Christ,
stronger than death.

Author Bio:
Alexandria Leon is a writer based in Salem, Oregon. Her poetry explores themes of motherhood, grief, faith, and hope amid a fractured world. She is passionate about capturing the sacred in ordinary moments and the tension between lament and redemption. “Painted Hands” is part of her early work as she develops her voice as an emerging Christian poet.