In my Rubik’s cube of carpal bones
dwells the silent but articulating
triquetral that proved my equal
when recently I fell
arm outstretched in the supermarket
as though reaching in competition
for a special bargain
on a shelf.
Even if true, which it’s not,
I got more than I was bargaining for.
In Emergency, under the quiet gaze
of x-rays the triquetrum expressed
distress, not in words of anger or of fear
but in hostile fragments.
“Today’s the day!” it said, “That’s what you get
for ignoring me all these years!”
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