V. H. King's Ink

You had to do it by

hand,

in order to see.

Yet just so lately, my fingers feel unwieldy.  My grip is awkward,

my bent fingers unable to grasp

with any measure of strength.  I gasp

every time I attempt to make a

fist. 

My joints feel perilously close to

popping

out of place. 

I can still write

with crooked fingers. It’s the

shock

on the hinges that gets me.  Worn out springs,

and there are two months of winter

left.  What am I

saying?  You already know what I mean.

I could say I don’t know why

I’m telling you,

but I do. 

I’m telling you

because I need to hear myself

say it. 

I’m giving myself proof—that you will

listen

and not

leave me. 

Childish insecurity.  You will

stay

because that is who you are. 

You remain—as will

I.

Oh, how ancient our remains.

Nowhere near

ruins, us two. 

And yet—this eternal ache could not be

unearthed

even if they drained the seas

and dug ten-fold fathoms deep.  

They cannot bury me. 

In the womb of the earth,

I

breathe.