ਹਜਾ

Measure years with my knuckles, I tighten them into my fist.  With fingertips I stretch a canvas. It sounds like no big deal, but inside my fist, I catch a six-foot long snake.  Its belly holds all my age- 50 years.

Stretch it and it grows longer, like letters.  Pull too hard and the paper tears;  leave it slack and the note slips.  I hear a slippery note in my ears, it plays on a loop. I first mimic it, then put a finger on it, rub it. It greases itself, sings back, never disappears.