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I seem to be in poetry mode at the moment. Weird. But also fun.
fingers
when precisely was it that my
fingers (scrap-nailed, bent)
became
lined with use, adult tools that do not
resemble those slim fronds
with which I learned
to grasp crayons, doorhandles
firmly, with a child’s sense
of seriousness in such simple tasks; when
did the callous below
the ring-finger of my left hand,
flesh-caramel dot beneath a silver band
form; or when
did the sharp creases of
my palms first tar
in lines of life, heart, mercury
the hidden onwards road,
the wandering star?
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