Thumb

Been hoodwinked.
Flattened by shenanigans.
Bent misshapen in imitation
of a downward facing dog.

Pushed about the braid
and swaddled. I hedge
on the billow clouds. Laid
my butter pouch alongside

this quiet pond at dusk.
I consider my resemblance.
I’m in vigorous frisk
of dismay. Been dimmed

about by the brazen sun
lowered into a cooling bowl.
Within this rucksack I wear
I clover scarves to hide

under overhang of dangled
hollyhock. I am unfolded
slowly. I am an oval shape
of medicinal cream

and piqued field buffers.
My dribbles are peeking
as I hump about the settled
evening out rapture.

I enter into my own
fading reflection looking so
vague and round and bald
and more like a thumb.

Author of the article

James D. Autio is an artist and poet in Minneapolis. James' poems have appeared in Texas Review, Conduit, La Presa, and many other fine journals. He's been a poet since the early 90s. When not writing, James works in charcoal, acrylics, wood block prints, traditional Ojibwe arts, mixed media sculpture, and digital video.