sticks and stones

hope is a stone i sometimes find myself squeezing,
and i feel the slightest of tears
in the extensor digitorum of my forearm,
reminding me that what has been lost and damaged
must return stronger still.

this flexion and extension of broken muscle
acting against solid rock
is happening at the edge of the world,
right now,
in an empty forest
without light or trees,
and these arms, with everything else connected,
are naked.

there was a time i might have danced
and expected the world to dance with me,
but now we must squeeze at stones,
because everything is dead
and there is nothing else left to do.