The Carpal Tunnel (poem)
The electrochemical couriers of the night’s tunnel delay.
Traffic tightens, mountains shift in, shipments of
sensation are lost. The quota fails to pass through,
and the index, middle, and thumb lock up on the
other side of Mont Blanc, numb as three men
whose bread will not come. They stand in
the cold and wait for morning, when the
commerce of the body can begin again.
With dawn they’re reminded the pins-
and-needles wheels to grip, the hands
(warts and all) to hold, the music
they must pluck from cellos and
breasts alike, the simple jars
(their women need them)
to turn open.
– from 7 Portraits, by Timothy Tiernan