Metacarpus

What is the glint

that’s peeking from your

pocket, your feet

along the bank? Is it the

transpicuous green

of glass, or from a stone

too jagged

to be skipped—

etched into your

palm

with every closing

of your fist, among

the varied cul-de-sacs

of everything

you’ve lost:

this way to your children,

that way to your spouse,

the imprint from your ring

that’s gone

a pallid roundabout,

going everywhere

and nowhere all

at once, wishing they were

rivers

instead of roads,

water far more

faithful

than what’s paved,

always leading somewhere

not a ditch, not the crunch

of tangled metal,

channels

in your hands

that bore the tears,

like the feet

of crows

embedded

by your eyes,

laugh lines

on your face

that stop cold dead.

Andreas Gripp

April 3, 2025

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