Les Mans

Moro reflexes tested when
you touch my open palm.
Do you remember?
An inflexible anchor
that hide his eyes while
playing Peek-A-Boo.

Interossei webs
pass over ivory keys
deluge “Frére Jacque”
with a quickening pace
despite stressed tendons
begging to steady.

Flaked green polish
peaked by Bugles-
I am a witch with talons
out of vernal fingers.
Tips to creases, they read your
palms and make you weep.

“They will adapt to change
and live.” But Mr. Ziebarth doesn’t
have thumbs. No paternal grip gives
me asylum while I blunder
through tennis camp with
Fifteen – Love.

The floundering boulder
heralds the coming fall.
My gummy palms
crimp ridges with
prosimian vice to level
and send it.

Glutinous residue from
Reese’s smear my fingers.
Paper cuts sting from
peanut butter as I turn the
pages of my finished work,
binding not yet cracked.

Do you remember?
Je m’en fou.

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