The marbled grain of wood recalls fingerprints,
Patterns of hair in the scalp.
We are marked by the ways we grow or stop growing,
Skin embossed with ridges
And lines, topographical. Highways of indigo unfurl
In my forearm, shuttling blood
Automatically. It’s not my doing. If I had a tail,
Could I flick it with the same ease
With which I twirl my hair or tap my feet?
Probably, but I don’t. So I allow
The traffic of my body to continue, to continue
To bear the impressions left
From the molds that cast me: gridlines, carvings,
Indentations and inscriptions.
Love it!
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