Firm Grip

I held on too long. Her knuckle

shifted under my grip—

a small correction,

then the smile pulled tight.

Thank you for coming in.

My shoes in the parking garage,

each step doubled by the concrete.

I replayed the handshake

all the way to the car.

My father shook hands once. One pump.

Dry palm. Already gone

before you knew it happened.

His hand arrived, said what it meant,

and left.

Mine holds on.

Mine keeps asking.

I sat in the car

and opened my fist against the wheel.

Closed it. Opened.

Her knuckle shifting—

that's how I knew.

The interview was over

in the bones of her hand.