my present

there are lines that live in my hands and make a living by telling my past my future my present these are not poetic lines, but they are geometric — my fingers can trace the triangle they make: my past my future my present these lines belong to my body, but they also belong to bodies no longer alive to bodies yet to be born to bodies that form my past my future my present these lines turn the white dwarf stars that are dying into canonical babbling, slowly rocking the new moon living in my belly with Turkish lullabies until everything melts and there’s only one line left — now all I have is my present Originally published in the 24th issue of Sky Island Journal.