The Hollow Hand

This stab wound in my palm
is a tear in the movie screen.

Not too serious, just a rip,
hardly noticeable once you’ve grown
accustomed to those flickering white lips
curled back from the hole in the story,
whispering sweet nothings about how I am

the screen all life is played against.
Without me, there is no movie,
light spilling through space, meaningless
until it is blocked. No matter,
no images are lost except a slice.

The torrential action erodes
my attention, washing it away.
I’m only occasionally startled
by an extra mouth, drawing breath.
Of course it will close, I’ve seen it

happen: tissue knits itself together.
I’ll be whole again with barely a scar,
that obscene pink tongue tucked back
under skin where it belongs, silenced.

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