Our fingerprints are not for leaving a trace,
but to keep our hands from sliding
off the body’s wetlands, the places that demand attention—
ours & the partners we keep
for a long time, or simply a good time. My wrist
& jaw might hurt, but I will never complain
about contorting next to you in a dark room
while Texas burns to the ground outside
because it refuses to do anything else. Forget about it
and dab tip to tongue, grip here, bend
like this. Maybe it’s the apocalypse talking, but
I know what’s important, and it’s not them,
it’s the damned like us.
We might die without successfully changing
our names on a government database
but we know how to live, and we use our hands
like peeling rubber until nothing is left but smoke
and the cigarettes we plan to outlive.