my hand is smudged
with ink;
marker actually,
I lick my finger tip
and check again,
try to rub it, realize I had
written it in Sharpie
before I stick the tab under my tongue.
this is
a bad habit of
mine:

writing to do lists on
my hand
with whatever pen I was holding
so I wouldn’t forget.
I saw the melting
phrase, a faded scrawled “pw”
near my thumb
which meant paperwork.
it was already Saturday.
(this is 2018 to keep up.)
there is one heart on my left hand
to count the hours between when I took the
dose to now.
everything is obscured by
the fractions of stories–
  I am looking for
something that can
only be found by my
favorite talent:
my eidetic memory,
my propensity to travel
from one section of
the ground to another
uncovering trauma,
my ability to walk backwards.

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