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