Left Hands of Men with Right Arms Only by Tripp Howell
Missouri is no way to write a poem.
I can hear the revival starting already.
Tents that never come down
are not really tents—they are more
like booths on a periodic table,
freckles belonging to a red-haired universe,
a god resurrecting all the wrong people.
Seconds and minutes have no meaning.
Everything happens in between.
Kisses like seesaws are string theories
of their own. You are fractured glass
on sunny days and you are beautiful.
A doctor is on his break in the cafeteria
and he discusses your lack of a condition.
Suddenly I wonder about the students
who failed their god exams, the ones
who turned in papers with equations
that would have made everyone a musician
and everyone deaf. How they must have
wrung their hands waiting for the results,
how they must have invented gestures to hide it.