Hinge

The therapist says I should look at my hands,

to keep myself grounded in where my life stands.

But I reached for the salt and the light hit the skin

at that sharp, ugly angle where the wrist bones begin.

It’s just a hard knob, a white-yellow point,

the mechanical hinge of a desperate joint.

And there, in the hollow, a smudge from my lunch—

bright yellow mustard, a colorful punch.