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