Ink-stained Fingers

Ink-stained Fingers

By David Zeltser

When my pen overflows,

I try to read the pages of my hand:

the ink-stained index, the marked-up middle,

each dark and smudgy print, a Rorschach test,

a private press release of what

I don’t know, may never know, about myself.

But like old Queequeg staring

down at his tattooed living parchment,

I can’t read the marks,

though my own blood

beats against them.