Asked to put my hands on the edge of the table, it feels almost like I'm about to play the piano. But it's been years since I practiced scales or arpeggios. And the knuckle joint of the middle finger of my right hand has been swollen for two weeks; it's so stiff it can hardly bend. While the hand doctor inquires about any injuries at work or sports, I imagine the row of felt-covered mallets on strings, the soundboard richly amplifying interior sound, just like both pain and joy when they fall down and call from the interior of a well. I think I envy the hand doctor a little—he says curl your hand into a fist, thumb pointing out; or slowly unfurl the fingers. It's as if he can make everything in the world concentrate in this small space. Cupped hands make a valley; and underneath, the little bones knit and sigh.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
