Every time I rub
my hands together
to scrub off bits of
dried Elmer's glue,
I feel like a snake—
especially if it comes
loose in one long peel
picked delicately free
by the tips of my
fingernails.
Regeneration.
I am still making,
still being made,
still made of being,
no matter who last
held my hand, traced
the fate and love lines
crossing my palm.