For once, I’m sure the poem on my palm had nothing to do with my mother.
I think the poem had something to do with camels
And how their fifth knee is located on their stomachs,
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And of course it had something to do with the immortal jellyfish
Who is constantly aging and turning into a polyp of itself to be reborn
In the next deep-sea wave.
Somehow, everything I ever write on my palm is a fact about an animal,
Even email addresses I etch onto my skin are somehow stand-ins
For the regeneration of earthworms.
I can never seem to get any deeper than pen markings on palms—
Even here, on this plane, I can only speak in tidbits.
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