Paul Guest's My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge is reviewed today on GuideLive. Here's a sample of his work, provided by HarperCollins.
My Arms
By Paul Guest
My arms are mostly cosmetic. When I say this
to a stranger, often he'll wince
like he wants to hide inside his eyes.
Vanish from the day. I shouldn't laugh,
should be tired twenty-one years
into the telling of a poor joke,
made of pain, nerves snuffed like wicks. Back
then, I was a boy. No secret
that I fell through that
summer like a star. And here I am
wanting spring and birdsong
after tedious winter. Once I prayed
my arms might serve me
again, roll toothpaste from the tube,
dump rice into boiling water,
swat dead the mosquito
drilling its derrick face
through my skin. That symmetry,
left and right, one and one--
it's not a math I know,
not anymore. There are days I want
to lament broken glass
or put my fist through the door
or throttle the blue sky's silent
throat. There are nights
full of ache, full of nothing nimble.
No music but smashed guitars
would be enough. How many clasps
and how many buttons
did I try with my teeth
until her hands did for me what I could not?
Untrue to say I lost count
of what I never hoped to keep.
A lie to say that when
she held my hands to her hips
and her body above mine,
I loved such need, I did not hate us both.
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