We’re taking on handfuls of our worlds
with fingers—chipped varnish, or grit under the nails,
little rings or Bic knuckle tattoos, scrawled memos on palms—
perhaps slim because you played piano or maybe thick yet agile, like your father’s.

Then adorned wrists with concert passes from long past or colorful beads,
frayed friendship bracelets of friendships not yet frayed;
maybe just skin, your own only color with no distraction from its glory,
and watches—to make sure we’re on time for our own little victories.

—By Choy-Ping Clarke-Ng