A Hand Of Cinquain

by Mark Granier

This game
is where letters
are given some rope, slack
to unwind with, make your name turn
its back.

What has
five fingers, a
clutched riddle unclasping
its light touch, two fingers sealing
its lips?

Cinquain
is just a name,
accident of birth, of
geography. Could have been less. Why
complain?

To fit
this many feet
on board, the old measure
is best. Count the elbow room in
cubits.

Give me
five. Tick off each:
warm skin, honey, sirens,
my sleeping breath as I turn to
face you.