I am skin made of rifts.

With one finger

I trace

the ash that is me

around my eyes,

the arris

whose fragility you do not expect,

the scar that is you

borne in my spine.

One day this voice

will gift

in dangerous transparency

the elastic curve of a perfect arch,

the dunes’ smile

at anointed skin.

And it will be the voice for all rifts:

ritual celebration

of memory.