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,
did not erase that indent between my eyes
which furrows on a black day.
If I focus,
I remember childhood fingers
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
and spark –
Scurrying pupils fly across a skyline
Like free bones your hands wander,
write, and feel.
Nest with me.
the possibility of the adult.
By Natalia Zernicka Glover