Navigating a jagged fingernail
across the concavity of my left palm,
tracing it across lines etched into the flesh,
pausing to redirect at each intersection of plates,
I can’t help but ponder what marvels lie buried
in the magma pulsating beneath the skin.
Pondering, imagining, wishing—
it all leads me back to the central vein in my wrist,
the one that blossoms into violet
right before it melds with the indent in my palm,
and everything is mapped out for me:
the etchings point back to the heart.
I love this.
Thoughts are fictions… Words are poems.
Thanks to both of you!
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