I’ve spent years learning to tie the monkey’s fist,
wrapping the long working end of the rope
around the fingers of my hand. While rocking
and nursing and feeding and soothing, I’ve held
the first set of turns in place, then made three more turns
with the rope. While reading and chasing and
swinging and catching, I’ve learned to pass the end
through the inside of the knot, to make turns inside
other turns. And pull it all tight, just so.
I have wanted to perfect this heaving line knot,
something I might use to throw to my son
to save him when he drifts away.
I have practiced the art of the throw, but it seems
I have tied my own hands by accident.
And now that it’s time to untether the line,
my hands want only to practice what they know,
holding on, holding on, holding on,
how clumsy this new art, letting go.