Ankle and Wrist

To know the world with the eyes was not enough.

So there was an expansion, fueled by a want,

a longing to do more than just see.

A lengthening of limbs,

a bridge from shoulder

to elbow

to knuckle;

from hip

to knee

to toe.

Where once there was a stump,

now, a narrowing

and then a budding at the tips,

a grasping, trying to feel something,

and finally, a symmetry in the web of muscle and bone,

a fine distinction between ankle and wrist,

the slant rhyme of thumb and first toe,

like two different types of apples

or small birds.

All based on a suspicion

that there was something else:

the other half of lightning,

the low rumble

now felt through feet, skin.

And the fire that it brought,

the knowledge of warmth,

smell of smoke,

crackle of fat,

and the way that hands fit together,

the way fingerprints introduce

themselves in the dark.

Driving with Patsy Cline

A quiver in her voice,

and Pasty Cline is beside me,

singing in my ear

as I drive.

The hesitation

means we are talking,

or she is confiding

and I am listening.

I know she is not singing

just for me,

but when she falters like that,

we are alone.

What caused that little shudder,

that yelp sparked from her throat?

What made her voice ripple

like the aluminum ribbon

in the microphone’s capsule,

a tiny flag popping

in the wind of her breath?

Something she saw

through the recording booth glass?

A memory of the one

she wrote this song about?

Was it an almost-chuckle

at how she had actually forgotten,

for a moment,

who she was singing to,

that it was about him,

that it was about anyone at all?