Jumper

Mostly I applaud and jealousy
is a splinter in my hand. Not
that I would call it an affliction.

Not that, if pressed, I wouldn’t
admit the words jealousy and
splinter both run wide. Nothing

stings, after all. During the ovation
for the actor who makes me wipe
my eyes, an eyelash-sized envy;

for the painter, a green bristle
from a horsehair brush. Maybe
this, too, can be explained: maybe

the whisker of our own talent
is what itches when we clap. Never,
after all, have my palms tingled

cheering the jumper. The girls
who make high dives lamellophones,
the shooting guard pedaling thin air

over the key—I laud them empty-
handed and flat-footed, the same
as any witness to unattainable grace.