The Carpus

I have given more thought to your wrists than to whole centuries; my history textbooks are empty of importance, piled on my desk, untouched by highlighter — I know there were wars and beauty and win and lose — but no one has talked about those eight bones — I start to say their names in my sleep: lunate, scaphoid, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate, pisifrom, triquetral. In the morning you ask me about my dreams, but I only shrug sheepishly, tell you that I have a paper due — that there are wars and beauty and win and lose to arrange — but I hold your hand just a little bit longer, lovesick and strange, wondering at the names of your veins. I want to be able to say it all. I want to be able to keep it.

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