these marks upon my arms
are not for charms or meant
to be charming, they are not
for protection, not for kurt
cobain, and though i like it
when a friend asks if this
one on my left hand is a dandelion
seed, it is not a symbol for that
either. these are a bridge to
the other side i could never
reach wherever i travelled or
what languages i learned to speak,
they are in honor of my sitti
and in defiance of my family,
they are a duty paid to tradition
and a two finger salute to
the policing of tradition. may
these signs on my hands make
me legible as bad other, danger-
ous other, yes a real mother, a spell
cast against ever backing
down or trying to hide, these are
wards cast against passing for
someone more assimilated or
well-behaved. no i will not tell
you what they mean they mean
everything, they remember me
to mystery and every story my
grandmother never told me
and every origin story my
father never told me and every
inkwell to write my own story
that my family never wanted
for me, and so i wrote them
all here on my hands right at
the fat hinge-joints where
I hook my thumbs into the
wheel of the world and turn.
