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.