Self-Portrait with Palms

I have suffered
           near enough this March— 
for to break, then break
           more, for to swallow
my disease,
           for to fuck my hand
again dry and tired,
           spit blood and pieces
of bone into my palm
           before I shake hands
with men who all have
           my father’s face, to enter
deep into that riot
           in our palms, pull
my knotted name
           out, pull my mother
from the field where
           she is bent under
the rubble of broken thunder—  
           is to call this
my life and burn it
           down black around me,
is to tuck ashes
           in the pocket between
gum and lip, taste
           the fire, misfortune.
Around the corner,
           March peels itself
away from the sky
           in shavings. I try
to find my face where
           I slick back my teeth
and kneel in front
           of my father, where
rain licks the street
           black, where I can’t
find the right shade
           of burial.

by Arian Katsimbras

---

Arian Katsimbras is an MFA candidate at Virginia Tech and earned his BA from the University of Nevada-Reno where he studied creative writing. He has served as Poetry Editor for the minnesota review, Assistant Editor for The Brushfire, has been a recipient of the DQ Poetry Award and the Surprise Valley Writer’s Conference Scholarship, and served as a Nevada Poetry Out Loud Competition judge in 2012. He has had poetry published or forthcoming in The Meadow and THRUSH, and is a contributing writer for Nevada Humanities.