Wrinkles

The boy looked at his hands.

Something had changed.

Now he saw two useless wrinkly palms

speckled with spots he once had spied

upon the leathery flesh of an ancestor.

Child still, he caught the shine of a wheel

attempting to roll forward

upon a sterile floor of bland linoleum,

inhaling a perfume now too familiar:

like ether, chlorine, and formaldehyde.

Teenager, he noticed his chest heaving,

a throbbing near the surface of a blueish river.

In awe at the sight of a life that refuses to give up.

Thoughts slowed to ponder the moment.

Seconds seemed like hours in this padded box.

Young hunter, he could still feel those legs

resembling a mummy’s shrunken flesh,

swimming within the sweet memories

of a chase against the hare, determined to survive,

and the sweet taste of the gamy flesh upon his heart.

Unable to lift those arms, once so potent,

the green of his eyes fades into a gauze,

letting the old soul drift into slumber at last.

Newborn blinded by the lights of another sun, he continues to write his own intimate history.

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, San Pedro River Review, and other publications.