Mapping past, present and future,
my hands tell
1,365, 219 stories.
Parallel lives I could have lived
hinged on one choice.
Each line scraping a story
scrubbing rhythms on my palm
Virginia Woolf in Kahaila on Brick Lane,
feeling strangely comfortable and anonymous
furiously writing her next novel in a public cafe.
My hands are more like crumpled love letters
scarred with make-up, dust and leaky pens
use a metaphor
something specific but preposterous
an instance of synaesthesia
a real person and a real place