By Fatema Rahaman

I.
Consider the chunk of neurons and creases controlling
Motion.
Cut the motor cortex into three.
One complete third exclusively
To clap.

II.
My fingertips feel every ridge and gully
where my forearms find flat plains
Rolling
On.

III.
Fingers tug and loosen knots.
Brush coconut oil into strands
A blue bottle
A wooden floor.

IV.
Lines are not written into the human hand
without reason.
I cannot tell where they bend and break,
But my heart line begins between
my index and middle finger, between uncertainty and comfort.
Between worry and surety in love.

V.
A plump dawn orange, a songbird blue sky.
Reaching.

VI.
I hoist myself up the ledge of the flower bed
My palm rests against his, a field mouse in a nest.
Something warm, something found.
Holding on on the sidewalk, there’s something we’ve seen,
Something we’ve heard. Stories about rivers that take and give,
That meander and discover new earth that lived somewhere
Before. Folktales that are true
To the river valleys and the soil that floats away.
The cars stream, we watch them from the overpass,
like otters drifting together.

VII.
The girl living in the house next door sits before the bride
In an apartment decades away from where henna trees grow.
She draws petals and vines tracing the bride’s veins. Hides a name
That dries binding to the skin on her fingers and palms.
The girl living in the house next door holds her friend’s arms carefully-
We will send you with our care. We will send you beautifully.

VIII.
I hold water in my palms
The gaps that I cannot close.

IX.
When you rinse yourself of the dust on your soul,
First, take the name of your Lord,
Then, wash up to your wrists.

X.
An emerald and jade canopy, skylight
speckling through the underside of the leaves.
A pattern mimicked by shadows on the pelt
a baby monkey holds on to.
He watches the world from his mother
swinging between branches.
A vestigial trait is a part of ourselves
that we don’t need anymore.
A blanket outgrown.
Still, an infant grips on to his mother’s finger tightly
A pale little fist- the palmar reflex- clutching on.

XI.
My fingers are nimble for now.
They tug open the blinds, flip a book, sew a stitch.

XII.
I hold my hands out spread when I pray,
The way a cat rolls over, exposing a soft white underbelly.
I believe there is a hand tugging souls and nudging dominoes
That answers.

XIII.
The deep pain of a paper cut
Just skimming the surface where pen marks
Blend in with ink blots that are birthmarks.

Fatema Rahaman is a poet and an undergraduate Biology student. Her work is often inspired by connections to her culture and interests in biology and nature. She has been previously published by Hey Young Writers and her work has been recognized by New York Times and Molloy College.