Thumb Wrestlers
We held hands for the first time
on his deathbed, which would have been
insignificant had we at least shared
a fist bump, some dap, or a ritual
handshake during any of our times together.
The distance between us always felt
wider because of the unspoken rule
about unsolicited touching. According
to his sister, people always thought
he was a loner, but he was just “private.”
So in his hospital room, surrounded
by unblended families,
I leaned in close and whispered,
then he squeezed and I squeezed back.
It was the loudest conversation
we had ever had. My warm breath in his ear,
our large twin hands entwined and grappling,
inventing our own Morse Code,
shouting all the things
we never found words for.
We held hands for the first time
on his deathbed, but I imagine an infant me,
wrapping all my tiny digits around the expanse
of one of his massive thumbs, like my son
is doing now.
Notes:
“Thumb Wrestlers” is reprinted from Last Will, Last Testament (Accents Publishing, 2019) and is part of the folio “Frank X Walker: Kinfolk.” Read the rest of the folio in the January/February 2026 issue of Poetry.
Source: Poetry (January/February 2026)