The women in my family write with a strange geometry
in loops and blocks like houses and the seas that beat against them,
always careful to leave enough space in the o’s and triple borders
of A’s for room to stretch in the morning, always sure to draw
enough length in the tired spines of all the z’s so that they will
still look so elegant after a full day’s work. They mold small
villages out of ink and fingertips and light smaller fires in the kitchen
of each home, lining them up along this, the crease of my wrist.
You cannot pin down two hands in motion like butterfly wings
between your two pointer fingers to plaster the walls in blues
and purples that will dye your dreams in dusk, but you can
press them against your cheeks until all the color has rubbed
off. You cannot keep a set of fingers or even their memory
pressed into your palm but you can try again and again.
About the Poet
Madeleine Cepeda-Hanley is a rising freshman at Yale University from New Jersey with a passion for poetry and writing in all its forms. She has a forthcoming publication in COUNTERCLOCK and is excited to further explore writing as she begins her college career