Mamma told me the maps in the creases of my palms have lots of rivers because my hands are always clammy
I am having a hard time talking to you
Every time I see your freckles
I want to play connect the dots
Geometry bites the iris of my eye
I see in forms instead of figures
Painting in pebbles
instead of sand
Mosaics
a graffitied brain
Have you ever dropped a clay potted plant?
You know
the earthy orange brown ones
maybe it’s ceramic not clay
You can’t pick it up in one handful
in one fell swoop of five fingers and one palm
You must begin by eliminating your palm
Switch to just five fingers
Then a thumb and a forefinger
And last the stickiness of your palm
Mamma’s rivers
And still there will be pieces left on the floor
A human body cannot be a vacuum
My eyes cannot be a hand
a palmless hand
two fingers
and sticky skin all at once
A moving mosaic
your mouth is filled with pebbles
the way a child counts the number of grapes that fit inside theirs
Or maybe marshmallows
I’m combing just the bottom half of a handful of your hair
and following a roadmap with my fingertip
topography too
and its terracotta
