We were
stopped at a red
light. You were driving me
home. It was quiet and I held
your hand,


tracing
the dark spot on
your palm. You claimed it was
dirt captured beneath your skin since
childhood.


I thought
it was a mark
of stigmata. Jesus
seeping his way through the
pinpoint


black hole
at the crux of
your hand. Years later I’d
watch you sleeping, your body spread
across


the sheets,
mumbling prayers
between smiles, the darkness
of your palm clenching into a
pale fist.


©A. Dixon 2205