Southpaw, by Erric Emerson

I wake up from limbo

and notice two of my fingers

are broken, the pinky and ring.

My left hand looks like a puffer fish

without the spines. The knuckle is hiding

in there somewhere and I’ve got the usual

scrapes from hurling and falling. Jerking off

with my weak hand is like doing it for the first time.

There’s the head-splitter of course, as soon as I stand up

and take stock of things. There’s a bottle to be found because

I always hide it from myself and don’t remember the hiding places.

If I find it, I’ll search the bottom for all the world’s secrets and then some.

I always hide it from myself and don’t remember the hiding places.

and take stock of things. There’s a bottle to be found because

There’s the head-splitter of course, as soon as I stand up

with my weak hand is like doing it for the first time.

scrapes from hurling and falling. Jerking off

in there somewhere and I’ve got the usual

without the spines. The knuckle is hiding

My left hand looks like a puffer fish

are broken, the pinky and ring.

and notice two of my fingers

I wake up from limbo

Erric Emerson is the former Poetry Editor of Duende literary journal. His writing has appeared in Crab Fat, Gingerbread House, Neon, Mead, Prairie Margins, Rats Ass Review, Five:2:One, By & By, and The Black Napkin, among other publications.

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