Biological Memory
We keep the old names tucked in the creases of our palms, where the fortune tellers say our lives are written. Old friends, lovers, or maybe even the way I clenched my palm in my mother’s womb… They are just wrinkles, but I’d really love to think they carry our stories. She turns my hand toward the light, following each crossing carefully, speaking in the language of endings and returns. A break here means grief. A fork here means distance. A long curve means you survived something you do not talk about. You have a very strong heart line, she says, and then it just disappears. I thank her. I fold my hand closed.
It is wonderful - reading your palm. We did it in our childhood, mimicking the Gypsies. And then I forgot about it. In your poetic imagination, it sounds so lovely and sad, because lines go deeper and life goes sadder. Beautiful poem, and everybody will read it according to their lines of biological and life lines.
Wow, my friend, a long curve means you survived something you do not talk about.* I felt that line before I finished reading it.
The whole poem builds so quietly, so carefully, and then that ending. You have a very strong heart line, she says, and then it just disappears. And you fold your hand closed. No explanation. No unpacking. Just the closing of the fist over everything that does not need to be said.
That is the whole art of restraint in four words. I thank her. I fold my hand closed.
The image of the creases as old names, as biological memory, as stories the body keeps without permission, that is the kind of thinking that only comes from a poet who truly lives inside language.
Absolutely amazing MashaAllāh, my friend. This one is something else. ❤️🫶🏻✨️