top of page

A Canonical Haunting 

by Alison Lubar

at midnight, the hands of everyone

I’ve loved come grasping—fine, anemic

fingers of the piano playing pastor’s son,

chipped black nail polish with power-

chord callouses, tobacco-

field tan, Sanskrit ink script billows above

aquamarine manicure.

I bite not nails, but knuckles

instead to taste copper-stigmata,

holy whorls and loops of every print

on my ribs, the gun of pointer-and-thumb

fumble to jugular with one hunger, wish:

my lungs close like a fist.

bottom of page