Paper Cut
A red slash against my thumb,
stares at me as I write.
Seeing the bold, thin streak
form and feeling the invisible
cells run down my hand into
callused palms. There, among
rigged bumps of flesh they form
mountain tribes, lighting fires
across the range, dancing to
heartbeat rhythms and studying
the world above, around, and within
for answers as to why they came.
Ancient, kindred spirit released
From young, hardened body.
Vagabonds join them in
longhouses and Nordic temples:
smoking tobacco, drinking mead,
sharing stories of battle and triumph,
from wandering down my thumb
as it is pushed against backpack straps,
computer mouse, movie theater chair,
barbell, pen, and frozen steering wheel.
All this, because I got too excited
To turn a page of a ratty, old novel.
— Alex Hawkins