Gloveless, he
is carving ice.

Carving hands.

Here, a knuckle.
Here a lifted vein.

Kiss this palm
and I will cut it
from your lips.

Chisel.
Handsaw.

He wouldn’t
have it
any other way.

Such cold hands
from such cold hands.

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This poem began with the last line, which I lifted from a bad love poem I wrote a few years ago. From there I worked to bring in a short narrative. The title was last to arrive. The poem seemed an apt parable at the time, and surprisingly, still does.