It’s not located in the eyes, or the spine,
or the heart, but in the two hands—nails hacked, torn,
stress-bitten—and the draining brain.
It’s clear. I’m jealous. A poet discusses her father’s phone calls—
such inspiration—while unreliable flickers of Dad tease
my distant lobes. She says, “There’s a poem everywhere.”
I say, “There’s also a poem nowhere.”
It’s true. I’m jealous. You’re right; I’m left
alone, puzzled, puzzling
these razed patches of a man.
A mustache goes here. A bald spot goes there.
I carry a tin hand in mine; I start there—building, sculpting
a nowhere-man from a garbage heap. In there, only a single
Truth, from a pile of perfect ideas, can be assembled.
Dominic Fonce is an undergrad English major at Youngstown State University. He’s been published in fiction, poetry, comics, and journalism. Some of his work can be found at Calliope of the University of Mount Union, Penguin Review, The Jambar, and the forthcoming summer 2017 issue of 3Elements Review.