Why, on a winter’s night
in Chicago, should I suddenly
remember my grandmother’s thumb,
how she could curl it back
to practically touch her wrist?
As a child, after tweezing her whiskers
from the throne of her magnanimous lap,
I’d watch her display her magical thumb,
curled like the crescent of the tropical moon . . .
–excerpt from “Thumb Tricks” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in The Alembic.