On spotting my skin’s first etching I was frozen 

by the disbelief

that life should have to draw upon my skin

and leave little markings.

That my body,

this vessel,

did not erase that indent between my eyes

which furrows on a black day.

If I focus,

I remember childhood fingers

discovering anew

ripples and folds of silk flowing 

across my grandma’s cheeks.

The cool effortless way in which 

her napkin-folded arms would drape me 

into the warmth of her forgiveness.


Your eyes so wide. 

Wet globes. Pleading, milking 

crazed wonder 

and spark –

Scurrying pupils fly across a skyline 

A lark!

Like free bones your hands wander, 

write, and feel. 

Feathers flapping, 

scraping reality.

Nest with me.

Bask in

the possibility of the adult.

By Natalia Zernicka Glover

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