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 Sky Island Journal Issue #24.