Monica Vitti’s Hands
*after Antonioni
Somewhere, a solid drop of upheld stone
soaks into the smallness of her
slendering tips, parted within the lines
of foam, an island that lives as everything
slips. Tangled, her hands grasp
rock, as struggle ceases her
clasp—her mind has dangled
stranger things, when it’s late
should she say it? She is trying to impress
what little is left of him, his fondness
worn, that primitive
being. Calling, her name
only melts with afternoon
sea, an image incomplete, still
beneath the devolving harbor
that unpieces. A woman weaves starfish
in her hair and goes unfound.
Copyright by Jessica Schneider
