Marks

Marks

With a pencil, marking where the head
of a person is now, so they can turn
and see how low they once stood.

With the plastic lid of a fountain soda
and a thumb to dimple one of three
small hills, indicating if the drink
is diet, cola, or other.

With a key, the jagged calligraphy
of initials scraped into a park bench.

With carpet and a toe, tracing arcs
in the fibers by keeping the body
in place and rotating the leg
around it, like a compass.

With tight clothing pressing its seams
into your skin, Frankensteining your belly
and thighs when you undress.

With the sun and your weakness,
the inkwell of melanin you offer,
and a flicked brush.

With an arm and a cat who doesn’t
want to be held.

With feet passing through the grass,
stifling it, and inventing a path.

With a doorknob and the wall it backs into.