The lines on my palms
are deeply engraved.
They resemble bare-naked
trees in Chernobyl,
or the veins of cloverleaves
pressed in your grandmother’s Bible,
or the roots of a young sapling
penetrating through the soil,
digging deeper into the earth
because it wants more—needs more.
Palms embrace; paths intersect.
Our lives intertwine, tangle as we
stay in steady motion, continuously
sprouting, reaching for something
real to grasp.