Examining My Left Hand for Scars
Here is a memorandum to mark the day –
lacking a calligraphic hand,
no elegance of situation,
no gorgeous parterre at a country house
a cynical, antique voice maps my labyrinthine thoughts
that have been kindly called complex,
skeleton tree shadows sketch the midnight snow
like the crow-like seer with my palm in her talons,
looking for gifting, healthful signs,
breaks my gaze, sucks breaths between her stubs of teeth,
blindly clutches her tongue for absolute lies,
like being asked to eulogize a slight acquaintance
makes you fumble for flattering adjectives
I remember the time, they recall,
searching for distinguishing marks,
when the ferry pulled from its moorings
and we ran full tilt and she tripped,
there ought to be a way to identify the body they agree,
examining my left hand for scars