A Canonical Haunting 

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by Alison Lubar

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at midnight, the hands of everyone

I’ve loved come grasping—fine, anemic

fingers of the piano playing pastor’s son,

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chipped black nail polish with power-

chord callouses, tobacco-

field tan, Sanskrit ink script billows above

aquamarine manicure.

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I bite not nails, but knuckles

instead to taste copper-stigmata,

holy whorls and loops of every print

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on my ribs, the gun of pointer-and-thumb

fumble to jugular with one hunger, wish:

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my lungs close like a fist.