Exteriors
by Liz Ciampa

There is no name
For the space between
The thumb and the index finger

But your right hand still hurts there:
Right where you grasp the paintbrush
And the rollers--

You use two sizes today--
And cannot help but think of
The movie Karate Kid

As you sand and prime the rungs on the deck.
Clean, sand, prime.  You are there for a while.
Next door neighbors, behind the house,

Tree workers carefully raze the old maple
Piece by piece. The work takes all day.  At the end,
When the largest branch falls--

The size of a tree itself--
Late sunlight spills through the open space
Onto the backyard and deck for the first time.

Surprised, you rub the spot on your hand,
Conjure up possibilities, and
Decide to leave painting 'til tomorrow.



(Ciampa, Liz. What is Left. Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2009. p. 27. Print.)
*By permission of the author, this poem is a slightly altered version of its original published in the chapbook cited above.

Photograph, courtesy of Mr. Daniel Carpineto, Beverly, Massachusetts.