​It sits off to the side,
a last bit of evolution
that is opposable,
and yet it helps me
wave hello,
helps me say,
“stop.”
I can even say,
“come here,”
All without a word.
Thanks to this digit,
a part of my hand.
It helps me hold you,
and gives you its own separate
massage when I put my hand
in the small of your back,
or on the nape of your neck.
It helps me get a grip,
props up my chin,
and peel an orange.
It wipes your tears
when I hold your face
in my hands,
and brushes back
the hair from your eyes.
That I may better see they
way they say,
“I see you,”
The way they tell me
you need me,
unmistakably,
that you love me,
unconditionally
and that you are
and always will be
mine.
All in those ways that
transcend words,
like music.

M. Zane McClellan

Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved

Advertisements