Anemone

by Les

I wonder which is safer: holding on,
last words spoken hanging on memory’s cliff edge
the almost-tasted, almost-said on the tip of our tongues

or letting go, inarticulate flutter of fingers unlinking,
reading air like Braille. I want to take my cue
from the eloquent cipher of hands

let them be my central nervous system
let them carve you out of night, sculpting peaks and gullies
of your name. I will map what I can touch.

Such exacting work commands attention
what you cannot look away from. Flares in the field,
distress signal, or random pulsation of suns.

All that mesmerizes, burns. A man opens his fist under water
digit by digit, clenching again with the slow rhythm
of what feels like the last climax. The curious would come

and slide their bodies against his fingers. This is how
he catches fish. What does it take to master timing?
In ocean’s navel, where water is heavier than light

the anemone undulates. In the webbed arc between
forefinger and thumb, a pulse keeps time with my heart.
Desire’s gestures are the subtlest metronome.

I am trying to interpret the raised hand, the spread fingers.
It means hello, or maybe goodbye. I wonder which is safer.
Something beckons. And I, of course, will come.