>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.