Looped through the fingers of my left hand
is a rosary, entwined like ivy
grown up round chicken wire
and I'm using each bead like an abacus
tallying prayers I've never whispered
to a deaf and distant god

The curl of the fingers on my right hand
crests like a wave, and breaks
over the marker in my palm
which I used to annex all my birthmarks
if my body were the sky and my flaws the stars
this would be my constellation