Friday, April 29, 2011

The Pebbles of the Wrist

And what to make of that pile of rubble,
the carpals tumbled at the fingers' roots?
What storm washed them there? What mender
set to work with glue and ligament
and tethered each to each?

My fathers carried their fathers'
in leather bags for luck, rattling
like dice in a Yahtzee cup. You can cast them
like the guts of birds: you can read them
like the I Ching or the Tarot.

Where finger thumb and arm come to parley,
time tries its combinations,
the tumblers shift and click,
until finally the guess is right, the hand unfolds,
and the pebbles of the wrist lie open to the sky.


anna said...

Just beautiful, the last line especially I think.

Dick said...

A very satisfying piece, Dale. If new, a keeper just as it is.

Dale said...

Thanks, Anna, and welcome!

Thanks Dick. Unusual for a poem-a-day poem -- just a small tidy thing, nothing ambitious, but it felt finished as soon as soon as it popped out.

Glad to be done. Now maybe I can scurry around and see what other people are writing again! :-)

Jayne said...

The imagery is fabulous, though my knuckles are oddly paining me. Wonderful. ;)

rbarenblat said...

I love reading this one aloud. "pile of rubble, / the carpals tumbled..."

Dale said...

Thanks Jayne & Rachel!