Today's poem is by Timothy Kelly


The body's curving comes
to the hand like the dry fields
rise to rain, like risen bread
rounds off in heat, like a pie,
baking, rises to the attic must
of your grandmother's house
where you and your cousins,
winter Sundays, pawed up and
pored over treasure. Like a well-
made tool, the palmed body
docks and snugs, convex to
concave, with heft centered
and a contouring, wraparound
grip. Nothing, not even the long
bones, are truly straight; every
line bowed, every end flared,

cupped, clubbed, and I say
thank God, since most hold
we're made in His image, and
I can hook your hair behind
your ear and study the swirled,
cartilaginous flower I funnel
these driftboat lullabyes into,
tracing distractedly your hip
rounded high in sidelying, incline,
decline, and watching night rise
nest to nest, branch to branch,
muting talk, slowly sealing
the day's high cylinder with its
ball-domed, birdshot, light-riddled lid.

Copyright © 2005 Timothy Kelly All rights reserved
from Toccata & Fugue
Floating Bridge Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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