Like a first spot of rain on a dry paving stone, a puncture
that let the air out even after the first repair.
A tattoo of a full stop, the only one in sight of itself,
it is a keyhole to the inside it is a peephole
it is a rising bubble of CO2 in pop. A pip,
a seed of the poppy plant, an ant's footprint.
A pinprick of the night on the join between my right thumb
and the rest of my hand: it is trying to tell me something
about my mother. Or at least, some combination
of my own hands as my mother's and her past ones.
It is almost perfectly round
like those filtered photographs of the sun in eclipse,
and is, therefore, a representation of the moon.
My inverse, tiny moon, you are a surprising ode to genetics
on the relative constellations of my arms.
A brand new bright and circular moment in the sky of distant, faded suns.
If I shook my arms it's like you could all up sticks and reshuffle;
all breezy, cocksure confidence in your new positions,
coming up with your own mythologies
for the shapes you're making.
First published in Poetry London.