No one wanted flexible joints from masons
Building stone houses. Children, however,
Remained much fascinated with the concept
Of being double-jointed. I had seen many
Playing together, trying to bend their thumbs
In reverse. I had been one of them, except
That I was truly, horribly, painfully flexible
In my day, and could, can still, make a hand
A tarantula strolling across the surface
Of the inflexible world. Articulus, diminutive
Of artus, a joint, a vulnerability, a made thing
Carefully joined together, an Indo-European
Riddle for the making and kneecapping
Of ordinary human things. I was not one
Of the ordinary children, not even a little bit.
If my life were a mason working in stone,
The stone would've been obsidian, volcanic
Glass like the chunk from Nigeria my mother
Gave to me when I was too small not to think
Of the the scalloped, reflective, cutting
Surface of that piece of the world as magic.
Glass is not flexible, however I wished it so.
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