Mary Kille, Feature Poet

Knucklebones

Two thousand years ago or more:
Hey Marcus! Knucklebones!
Come and have a game,
And see if you’re a master!
and the boy with the leather pouch
squats in the dust.
He clears away the dirt and pebbles
strewn by a passing chariot
with the side of his hand.
When all is level,
he empties the contents of his bag upon the ground:
The contest starts.
The bones are smooth and polished;
many hours of play
with nimble fingers
and the palms and backs of hands
give a comforting, familiar feel,
and a grey-green patina
to knucklebones,
or gobs or dips of jacks,
hucklebones and chuckstones.
There’s a concentration
on the challenge;
dexterity’s what counts,
not strength.
Sometimes the youngest wins.
A child today could play an ancient Roman,
or a Greek,
a king’s daughter or a peasant’s son,
and know the rules,
and win a wordless game.
Simplicity prevails.
Don’t let our children lose the chance
to play the age-old, universal games
that have these lovely, half-remembered names
of chuckstones,
gobs or dibs,
or jacks,
or knucklebones.

© Mary Kille