There they go, Ashley and Tad,
the hiking group’s organizers
pressing impatiently up
the path, striking saxifrage
and vetch with artisanal
switches as we lag behind.
Tad stops, bends by an outcrop,
buffaloed by an unknown
species, its platypus beak’s
greasy green leaves clustered under
a single purple flower
floating, an in memoriam
for dead ants on a battlefield.
He sticks a pinkie in the heart
of the plant’s velcro gob which
munches Tad’s digit up to
the second knuckle, both leaders
open-mouthed in disbelief.
The other hikers relax,
bemused, as Rhonda pretends
to fumble through her backpack
for a first-aid kit while Tad,
blood spilling in red slashes
across the adhesive plates,
beseeches all of us face
by face, then wincing, carries
his hand like a transplanted heart.
Brian Palmu is a poet and critic currently living in Victoria, B.C., Canada. His two chapbooks are Sunset Mathematics (Frog Hollow Press, 2017) and Parade (Anstruther Press, 2024).