These Cells Are Passages

this is where we intersect, form an X, we mark this spot. time aborts me, the arms intersect, no crosses. we insert an adage here, hum to ourselves.

i remember greed like my birth, sticky and vulnerable, but neglected to mark the page, my greasy thumb used instead for sucking. this is where we intersect.

i tape our photographs together and pretend we were in the same place once. i am nostalgic for times i didn't have, people i never knew. i had a dream once, i kissed jayne mansfield good-bye. nostalgia for someone i never knew.

as i open my palms after prayer, i refuse to close them, make fists. this is where we intersect; our old pages stick together, flowers in our creases.

we are grateful for the clouds that hide our shared wisdom. we mark this spot, chalk on pavement. the rain washes it away, takes our time with it.