Arsenic Lobster poetry journal        Issue Six   2004
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The Thought of Splinters
Alan Brich

             I wake up this morning thick as muted porridge.
It is like this sometimes.
                          Nothing to do but walk in thickness.
             Shanties to my left where the students live
                          happy in their beer sweat pajamas and
                                       toe-nail paint.
                          Everything is still going to be all right for them.
             I run my hand along a wood banister and keep walking.
                          At the corner of 10th and 10th
             I notice the splinter in my palm.
                          A child rides by on tricycle.
             Candy green shirt and dirty feet. He is happy with his tricycle
                                       and his dirty feet.
                          I try to remove the splinter with my clumsy left hand.
                          The splinter is not a cosmic gift
                                       of impending significance.
                                                    It is simply annoying.
             I get a hold on it and start to pull.
                                       It’s large.
                          Larger than any splinter should be.
                                       Then I see it is not a splinter at all.
                                                    It is the stem of a dark feather
                          that has somehow become lodged in my palm.
                                       I keep pulling
                                                    thinking about tetanus shots
                                                    needles in the stomach and worse.
             When I think that the feather is almost out
                          I see that it is more complicated than I thought.
                                                                 The feather is still attached.
             The whole bird here in my hand.
                                                                 Luckily, it is dead.
             Now I’m thinking about explanations to doctors about
                                       how one gets a bird lodged in their hand.
It is like this sometimes.
                          And really
                          it doesn’t matter
                                       all these thoughts and explanations.
There is nothing to do except pull the dead bird from your palm
                          and hope the damage isn’t too great.

About Alan Brich

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