The Morning After Losing the Olympic Gold Medal by a Point by Kyle Hemmings

In the morning, I rise with
slight legs, locate myself
in a mirror that reflects
a thin blur of me.
In the shower, I am
applauded with relentless
steam and it is only later,
reaching for a towel that I notice
that I’m without hands.

Without hands I can’t slice apples
and make it look sexy,
without hands I am only a puppet
in someone else’s geography
of signs.  My mother says
all my parts are intact;
it’s just a case of filmy eyes

of melancholia,
the morning after.
The doctor jokes that
he could always exchange
a wing for a fin. But, your hands,
he says scratching his head,
are finer than sky,

more transparent than not
it’s why you keep missing them.

Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey.  His latest collections of poetry/prose are Future Wars and Split Brain, both on Amazon Kindle. He loves 50s Sci-Fi movies,  manga comics, and pre-punk garage bands of the 60s.

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