illustrations by Natalie Nelson

When It’s Your First Time

Ordering at the local restaurant, you want to act

like it isn’t the first time. Maybe you did get lucky

enough to learn a tip from your cool cousins,

maybe you remember a move

you saw on the internet. You should focus

now, but your mind can’t do anything

but drift to the paradox of experience:

how can someone get some

experience when the world has no time

for beginners? You can feel the patience draining

from the person who’s waiting to serve you,

and you panic and blink before you remember

that you’ve practiced this by yourself

a few times. But you never wanted this to feel

like a routine. Something this good should feel

natural. But now you’ve forgotten everything

about what feels natural and what doesn’t. Your eyes

are moving fast and your mouth is moving slow

and you can’t decide what to do

with your hands and you can swear you heard a breath

behind you whisper a curse so you chicken out

and order chicken fingers and walk out

with your head down and your head wondering

when a chance that good will come by again.

For All the Hands I’ve Had to Grab Before I Could Grab a Plate

There are the nieces and cousins happy

to be included in the circle to show they can

hold hands and hold their eyes shut during the prayer

like the big kids they’re watching from the corner

of their squinted eyes.

There are the teenage boys who never know how

to hold a hand without squeezing or pulling

away at the first syllable of “amen.”

There are the grandparents and aunts and uncles whose

hands carry my family history of failures and

factories and fieldwork and footholds all cashed

in to buy us a seat at the table, to buy the table, to buy

the food on the table, to buy the gas and tickets and hotels

it took to make sure we were all at the table.

There are hands that you’ll swear

are bigger every year. Hands you’ll swear aren’t

getting smaller every year.

Hands that talk

and tell you “I love you,” “I missed you,” “I know

you didn’t mean it,” “I know you meant it, but

you can’t stop me from loving you” just

by the way they tap the back of your hand before

locking your fingers in place.

Hands that feel like a door

closing and leaving the weight of a wet winter in the yard.

Hands that feel like a door

opening and setting you free into the first bite of spring.

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