I worried the bridges
over my brows,
creased into darkness.
Does the crease have a name?
The valley of flesh
where shadow cleaves skin?

Here in my navel
three little wrinkles,
pinched balloon end.
Do the wrinkles have names?
The track of descent
where union's mark ends?

Across my palm there
lies a map of trails,
of tiny roads.
Are the path's names unknown?
A glimpse of our fate,
the shape of our prints?

My cheek gets furrowed,
is banded in sleep
from pillows and fist.
What do you call those
angry traces?
The name of that
painful kiss?