this time i think of vines
a movement to temple point
arrows that blunt on brown    a ripple turn
over tendons   flutter skin on the back of hand
bands around wrist that free   a black transparency
islanded flowers   suns and moons   rising in pulsation

*

lines on my palm seem inked
put upon    darkened in age 
skin beneath looks pale    
a relative white

*

hands in revolt 
the unshed   callouses unearned
my skin was not meant for this place 
how can you not like heat? it’s in your blood
family never known living where air is wet 
and sweat a cheap balm 
hands a pillow on unending days

*

there is rest in permanence
the marriage between ink and blood 
born from skin i don’t hold but have 
the pain is foreign but belongs 
i welcome invasion chosen 
an identified opening     this surface deep dissection