how do you hold everything in your hands? is muscle memory meant to pick up when your fingers forget how to knot & unknot? everything reminds you of something else, of a person or a situation that took a piece of tooth or a graft of skin, some of the memories distilled to silver hair that light the way in the dark, that communicate with cosmologies. you do not wield a wand, you become it; an instrument defined by nature, responds to human touch, casts messages and meaning from the universe into a song or poem whether in verse or relationship. we are only a series of relations, many prisms of light and shadow. meaning is a trap, an exit, a blood medallion, an inconsistent signature, a breeze spuming breath in the night. my professor told me i am a synthesizer. i still feel like i’m holding all of these disparate pieces, knotting and lacing them around my fingers, trying to turn them into Something, a hand to hold, a weapon to strike with, a noose in case i can’t take it. there are no literal translations. there are triangulations and trials and truer words. my skin is busy and there is a kind of rationality that skins the dog alive.

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