Brandon Amico

Now a resting place for my fingers,

a dock where my fidgeting

can return and rest. Colloquially a horn,

and right where a horn would surface

on the crest of my skull, this node

marking the site of a burst vessel for which bone

loosened its calcium knots to contain,

reconfigured, then hardened into a protrusion

that I habitually measure, prod, test to —

what? — make sure it remains solid? Same as

I worry the touchstone of my phone, inbox

a thousand branches of self-diagnosis,

family history BCCed to a whole organization

of cells. Calcified feedback loop

I unconsciously swipe and circle, afraid

the blood might open again, painless

like the ever-painless of the after.

And if it should? Will I hear

Penelope’s voice in the technology of genes,

a message sewn into me, passed along

until confirmed read: Come home.


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