Polar Bear: Hand & Forearm
Written by Gary Barwin
I send this picture of my arms to you. I send this picture of my bones and shadows, my long fingers, my disappointing thumbs. The bones and shadows of my long fingers, the bones and shadows of my disappointing thumbs.
I am these thumbs, this disappointment in a wave, in a fist. When I raise my hands in anger or in greeting, in a fist or wave, I am invisible. I am invisible in a fist or wave, in anger or in greeting, my pale fur stretched before the fire, you reclining naked for a photoshoot, an infinitely subtle human smile on your infinitely human lips.
My body has become shadow and ink and the vultures of bone. If I were ever skin or flesh, I am now ink and shadow and a planet of bone, surrounded by neither cloud nor sky but circled by bone and shadow, by vultures of bone and shadow. I look at the night. At the unmarked stars. I open my hands, show my skinless palms. Above me, night and the hairtips of stars regard my bones and their shadows, a calligraphy of ink, my bones and their shadows, lantern light riven by the page. I send this picture to you because our lives are the snowblind glint of fish flashing before sinking beneath ice.
I send this picture to you for I imagine myself arms and the shadows of arms, long fingers and the disappointment of thumbs, my body lost beneath ice, glinting shards of hunger replacing the body with hairtip stars. I send this picture for I am a ghost in a tundra of ghosts, a shadow like an x-ray of a shadow, my bones a ghost clothed in shadow, my shadows themselves clothed in ghosts.