The Hand & Other Poems

Poetry by Eric P. Tuazon / Collages by Nat Girsberger

Tune In

Tune In


Fore-edge Painting in Argonaut Books

The owner only sold history.

He ran his thumb down

on the top corner

and fanned the verso.


The gold plugged

and a girl appeared

picking through a brush,

flushing birds from hiding.


“Can I take a video?” I asked.

“No.” The owner said. His feathers

fluffed, and the book snapped away.

He had learned who could preserve


and who could restore

from his travels. In London,

he was damaged and they had

slopped the job of fixing him.


He was fine until Denmark,

and then his leg ballooned.

Spent seven days in a hospital,

another seven in the Opera.


“When it was time to pay up

and I asked them how much I owed,”

he said, pinching his Kroners,

“they looked at me like they had


never heard the words before.

At the Opera house, a kind citizen

explained the whole story to me

in better in English than my own.


Goodbye, they said, be well.”

Intruders of the Night

Intruders of the Night


The Worst Things

The face of each thing

shows Them what They

can take from us.


They may ring our ash

and jam Their pockets.

They may sear our ditches

and drown our eyes.

They may straddle the horizon

for our sunlight.

They may strangle our warmth

for no pleasure of Their own,


but the poet merely

arrives making notes as if

the world depended on it.


They take and ask

who command this coming,

because They are older

and wiser than poetry,

“Never mind the truth,

can every moment

be after You?


Can every moment

lift the brief curse

of our relief?”

Sun and Rising

Sun and Rising


Carboy Kettle Creed, Buzzed in Anchor Brewery


Spine of your headstone,

I did not foresee each new life.


We think of the sun and bite it in half.

Wounded by accident. Tourniquet by accident.

Start running by accident. Burned by accident.


Crazy swear things. Only surface things.

Labeled stage with depth and accident things.

Precise question: what should we look for things.

Possibility of spectacle things. Inevitably found things.


Found things.

Historical latch. Captured Supply.

Gifts that are no use.


She believes to be covered in nests

(She is not wrong).

She will eat her hands until spring.

She wears nests as evidence.

She feeds twigs to a ring


inside herself, a hill of ants,

the embodiment of loud sobbing,

strange nostalgia; bundled arch

of rods and axes.


Make known to me

your mirror in your palm,

your name’s address.

Show me how

to see your face.

Show me how

to come home.

Shroom Room

Shroom Room


The Hand


A hand loosens line

to tell stories and gut fish.

It slices through the eyes

and pulls up the stomach

from where we breathe.

The fish will wear the line,

save stabbing hook in its mouth,

and the story will wear the line,

save infant gaze in its mouth.


A hand lifts light

to hollow bog and candle wick.

It pinches twine

and pulls the weed

from where we plot.

The wick will wear the light,

save fire in its mouth.

and the bog will wear the light,

save smoke in its mouth.


And your hand drowns running

to hush habits and brandish weapon.

You shake your head

And pull your return

from your living want.

Your weapon will wear the running,

save retreat in your mouth,

and your habit will wear the running,

save what you can in your mouth.




Eric P. Tuazon

Eric P. Tuazon is a writer from Los Angeles. His fiction and poetry have been published in several publications. He is the author of several books, including two poetry collections, Animals and Love Will Tear Us Apart.


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Nat Girsberger

Nat Girsberger is a Swiss visual artist based in Brooklyn, New York. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Observer, Indiwiere, Whitehot, Artreveal and various other publications. Nat graduated from New York University's Gallatin School in visual art with honors.