STARING AT MY HAND
 
This hand is not mine.
The palm, the thumb, the veins, the fingers,
the strength
when I squeeze --
all are old.
It has caressed me when I was young,
discovered fire,
killed mammoths in the mountains of Utah…
 
The men are silent.
The brown-green valley undulates.
Above, cirrus clouds traverse the sky.
It appears around the bend.
The boy’s heart races. 
His hands are moist, and his mouth is dry.
With practiced hands,
he readies his atlatl and his spear.    
With practiced movements,
he inches closer.
And now a whistling sound before it lands,
convincingly, in its lavish gut.
And now a wild sway and swirl
of men and ivory tusks.
He smiles wide amid the shouts
and onslaught of spears.
 
 
This poem first appeared in Pennine Ink, June 2023.