Lit Mag Poetry

genealogy of snapping

I couldn’t snap my fingers

nor did I want to learn how

till my dad, on our walk,


a dry, thick snap like thock

the color of chipped wood

and bet I couldn’t snap like he could.

well damn, then I had to,

and I learned how,

snapped loud

but I never figured out

how to have my father’s fingers

so I only ever snap like fwick,

like a flicker, gilded

but not really gold

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