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"drawerful" poems
Out of everything I saw, I remember the thumb. Swollen and lopsided. There it was, conquering the wires--red, blue, and green, commandeering the clear tubes coated with stomach bile. And the nail. What a healthy nail. A pink rosebud with cuticle trim. Piqued with a white crest, curling. Prime for at least fifteen more back scratches. A drawerful of button-ups. Pockets of heads and tails. You can do it, Grandma. One, two. Heads, tails. Up, down. Up for braid, down for bun. Braid? Yes. Braid. And then there are two small thumbs bumbling through foreign terrain. The braidee now braiding. The baby, aging. Tucked in, lulled by echoes of strange mothers. Bleeping pressures, sugars, drawing lines and colors. But you have me. And I have this thumb, hidden under mine. I’ll keep it safe for you, here in this shadowed palm—sanctified, secret dome. I’ll protect it from the unhooked jaw. From placid flesh curtains, over a damp backstage. White light hanging over the insect—splayed on a lightning-gleamed car windshield. I’ll hide it away. Intermission. Hush now. Quiet, you. The show is not yet done. And ****** it won’t be. Not with this thumb. Not on my time. I bite it. At you. Skyward you. Elusive and slippery. Shiny, rubber-like, all but new. A blank belated card, lost in the mail. What it might have said, had I left a forwarding address. But we’re here now in this dark hand cavern. Tucked away, safely in lines. Those of the palm. Of tree rings. Of love songs, and Pretty things. Lines, like wires red, green, and blue. They bring me closer And closer To the thumb. Fat, with shiny aged skin, stretched new. And suddenly, I’m Old. Numb along one side. Useless and dumb. A limp puppet plunked down during intermission.
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Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
katelyn-hummer
Thumbs
Out of everything I saw, I remember the thumb. Swollen and lopsided. There it was, conquering the wires--red, blue, and green, commandeering the clear tubes coated with stomach bile. And the nail. What a healthy nail. A pink rosebud with cuticle trim. Piqued with a white crest, curling. Prime for at least fifteen more back scratches. A drawerful of button-ups. Pockets of heads and tails. You can do it, Grandma. One, two. Heads, tails. Up, down. Up for braid, down for bun. Braid? Yes. Braid. And then there are two small thumbs bumbling through foreign terrain. The braidee now braiding. The baby, aging. Tucked in, lulled by echoes of strange mothers. Bleeping pressures, sugars, drawing lines and colors. But you have me. And I have this thumb, hidden under mine. I’ll keep it safe for you, here in this shadowed palm—sanctified, secret dome. I’ll protect it from the unhooked jaw. From placid flesh curtains, over a damp backstage. White light hanging over the insect—splayed on a lightning-gleamed car windshield. I’ll hide it away. Intermission. Hush now. Quiet, you. The show is not yet done. And ****** it won’t be. Not with this thumb. Not on my time. I bite it. At you. Skyward you. Elusive and slippery. Shiny, rubber-like, all but new. A blank belated card, lost in the mail. What it might have said, had I left a forwarding address. But we’re here now in this dark hand cavern. Tucked away, safely in lines. Those of the palm. Of tree rings. Of love songs, and Pretty things. Lines, like wires red, green, and blue. They bring me closer And closer To the thumb. Fat, with shiny aged skin, stretched new. And suddenly, I’m Old. Numb along one side. Useless and dumb. A limp puppet plunked down during intermission.
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