Sparks in the Sun

My father’s hands were roped with scars

from burns at work. He had trouble

bending his fingers. The ache.

I watched him debone a perch

at sundown, run his ragged hands

over the thin thing, the spine curling

like rosemary from his grip

and onto the ground. My neighbor

asked for a jump, clapped the copper jaws

to make sparks in the sun. Then

he offered me meth for my car.

The woman I’m seeing has hands nearly

as big as mine. We share shoes.

She says I’ll come to hate her

if  I stay long enough. I can’t

make sense of anything, but

I disagree. I cut my hand this week

on the bramble spines that grow thick

in the forest. I didn’t notice till I looked

and saw blood all over the door.

The light today shows all the moving pieces.

I think I can see them when I step out

and into the sun. My whole body hurts:

unholy choir. My dad is gone: his hands

did it to him. I try to keep busy. I hold

her hands. I clean the blood off the door.