The Art of Skipping Stones

my father teaches my brothers to skip stones
across lakes—a leap of faith and sleight of hand
that begins

with munitions—rocks that fit young palms,
planed pancake-smooth by current and the friction
of closeness

closeness and friction
of sand rasping rock, wave skimming coast, brothers
standing on an August shore listening to a father
explain the physics

of spin and angle, hydrodynamic lift—and how it begins
with the way you hold things, how you grasp
an object, idea, stone, a girl’s hand

watch, he says, like this
they lean in, eager for the promise of secrets
and a thousand flawless skips—they study how

he clasps the stone firmly, but with ease, his freckled
thumb on top, riding shotgun, index finger hooked
along the edge—

an edge smoothed by the friction of closeness
that draws them here, as the sun sets and dinner waits,
to learn the importance of holding
before letting go