Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Two
Handy
His baking paper skin is cold-pale and tightly drawn
over the bones of his hands. There are no brittle bird bones here,
no delicate frames for gold or diamonds,
instead angry scaffolds beneath a fleshy harness,
chafing and bulging at the seams of skin.
Whitened knuckles shine and emaciated wrists bear promise of carnage to come.
The too-thin skin will be no match for their ivory violence
when mutinous cries rally them forward.
They will shred that fishbelly veil without a second’s
hesitation and leave him, bleeding and handless, with gloves of shredded
epidermis dangling from his wrists, as pathetic as empty pie wrappers.
A small scatter of fingernails will lie, spread around like discarded clothes tags,
bloodied and useless, except as bookmarks.
And he will look back with fond affection to the innocent days before
his bones ran away.