Catch

Catch

The first metacarpal—
a bone that sounds
like a prehistoric fish—
aches in my hand when
I hold onto the world
too tightly. A fish has no grip.

I fell off my bike trying to
make room on the path
for two bikers side-by-side who said “sorry”
as they continued riding, still aligned on the pavement,
while my hand lay flat on the gravel, outstretched
to save my face.

I sleep with one hand pinned
beneath my jaw. Every night trying
to save my face. I shouldn’t.
A little scarring might
conceal my thoughts. Honestly,
it is not my face I am protecting.

He cups the back of my head as I press
my nose into the warm, soft-hard place between
his shoulder and his chest, and my thumb aligns
with the dip of his spine—buoyed by the current
of an ephemeral stream we dug
with a wishful It’s not so bad and filled
with a steady rain of Here, stay here.