Bruises
I have my Mom’s knuckles. Fingers too. When I make a fist, my ring and pinky finger bones hide, like a turtle burrowing into itself. Stretched out, my knuckles turn to dimples, smiling out into the world. I remember we were on the subway, leaving Union Square, when I reached for you. You flipped my hand, palm down. You often wore this face when you looked at me: sunken eyes, red sea lips parted, eyebrows high in prayer. With a spit bubble in your throat, you asked why I didn’t have knuckles. Strange; I had never noticed. I didn’t know what else to say besides turtles tend to recoil against predators, using their shell as a shield for their vulnerable bodies, that I had only ever seen dimples until you told me it was something else. I could see you contemplating how hard you’d need to press to make them pop out of their shell. Perhaps, you thought, they’d spring out of hiding, eager to show their teeth. 34th street station appeared for a moment, then disappeared again as we returned to darkness. I took my hand back and placed my right thumb over the holes. When the first glimpse of the 72nd street station finally showed herself, I stood. Here is the moment I learned how the outline of a thumbprint bruises the skin. Perhaps, I think, if I can only press hard enough, convince them they are wrong. And I am no danger to them. I can eventually get them to show their teeth.
— CG