"thenar" poems
My capillaries believe that the frost is coming for them
-- my spine aching for the warmth
it has come accustomed to,
rather than the boreal brittleness underneath
that the cutlass attached to my feet
glided around in spheres.
It reminded me of the
moon’s orbit,
the shape of the planets
the ellipses of the galaxies
-- suddenly swirling,
breaking and reforming
the stars within them,
which I then noticed to be
the warmth of your
carpals and metacarpals
between mine,
filling up all the Thenar Space.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
There I stood,
a grown man, (or at least I like to think of myself as one)
shaking her hand,
her hands; dry, rough, hard,
and my hands had never felt so soft as during that moment; so sheltered as when I touched your mother’s hands,
her hardened thenar, those callused fingers, flooded me with warmth in the midst of a December night,
I could feel her love,
those hands that laboured all your life for you,
those hands that have toiled for you,
your mother’s hands,
the hands of love.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
I was drifting somewhere
between awake and a dream state
I figured I was made of stone
to heavy to turn in my covers
And while trying to move my feet
my mother the dying but lovely
whispered in my ear like if I was a child again
words I once knew but forgot
About stories I barely can gather
even from the clearest of fragments of memories
like laying a million-piece puzzle or building a brick house
which I never did and never really I wanted to
I never knew what the thenar space was
until I cut it and saw as the blood trickle like tar if tar could trickle
much thicker than I ever thought it would be
from such a small wound in such a trivial place
They always get longer and wider
my thoughts about this life and it's meanings
and it all loops back to this one inescapable thing
maybe one day I'll gather love and rain and road dust in glass jars like souvenirs
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
its still too cold around but,
the warmth of buttered toast
resting between my thenar space
and taste of raspberry jam,
allow me to forget this.
this wasn't always so.
butter repulsed my heart and
raspberries were meant for bleeding over.
toast would only burn and the trinity would never meet.
until the day i needed warmth i could hold,
until the day i needed warmth i could feel,
and have within my opposable apish grasp.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
the moment he thinks surely he’s the man about to read something beautiful he’s tied loosely to a chair by his father who calls him time. his mother measures again the kitchen and again it is small but no other room can set a trap for a cage. the meek speaking of a fork is a radio in the thenar space of his right hand.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
Wondering if I am still there
Wondering if me will survive
Wonder if I will be deliberate.
Us, together, senses are gone.
My senses are definitely gone
Myself is nothing in lonesome
My soul, really, did evaporate
Me and my self is merely gone;
Us, together, senses are gone.
I hold you and travel the rain
I never feel spiking drops of rain
I off a coat for you and no pain
I and you begrudge and no vain.
Us, together, senses are gone.
We slip, fall and we feel nothing
We sleep in huts and its nothing
We and the dearth, it is a belonging,
And love is our best daily teller
Us, together, senses are gone.
I do not even feel how cold snow is
I only feel how soft your thenar is
I am insouciant to how sharp critique is.
Us, together, our senses are gone.
Turn to me when hate tortures you
Living with love is now a routine
Telling me again that you still care
Tickles me and burst into laughter
To let it go will be very intricate.
Us, together, the senses are gone.
I undoubtedly love you.
Gelase Magnificat
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 3:18 AM UTC