Unfit But Held
A poem
Published in
Jan 20, 2023
Yet unreached, I still hold out —
my hand unclasped, sunken in air;
a twitching flex fails retreat,
motive murky by guardship.
But none to resist, the meaty
palm warmed. Through
playful dances and
swirling pools,
around aged lines
that crease clouded prints,
our half-written journal of
tempest nights.
And for a moment, disjointed
stumps, those that for time
mashed to place —
yours from metal work,
mine a severed peach skin —
came together,
held out,
and moved at our hips,
as we made way for places to be.
