Marginalia

Found my handwriting the other dayin a wrinkled scan of Joyce Mansour’s“The Cancer”—

a stain I don’t remember leavingbetween “cancer” and“dust in my mouth”

The tragedy of desire:

when you see your mother look at your father,and you see a woman loving a manloving the air at the ends of his fingertips

and yours learnto grow callouses.

The cursive grew small andstaggered at the end,as if to hyperventilate

a warning I missed from my handto the corner of the page—prepare for impact.