Finger joints curling
back into themselves
tucking away vulnerability
knuckles bloodthirsty canines
jagged mountaintops
volcanic uppercuts
we reach
alpha heights
Thunder-
crack sharp thump
sledgehammer-
blunt thwack
heads faces bust
watermelons split
flesh hot
cooking oil sizzle spit
scarlet
splatter
stretched
skin valleys through the in between
where the rest of the blood flows
Me a swimmer
wading in those target-red waters
small hands flat-palmed unfolded
fingers brittle
burnt matchsticks
arms rolled dough thin
pushed under
unable to muscle
through bicep waves
Adequacy
the rope I couldn’t climb in PE
What if I
hanging at the bottom
suspended in the air
two feet from the ground
called them over
tapped cushion-soft
all their bone-made cliff edges together
would their fists open
like warbling mouths
unfold
into wing-spread doves?
Delivering seahorses?
Then would we all
applaud
and call ourselves men?
Header photograph © Chris Nielsen.
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