he stood in the doorway, breath held in morning
not for drama, but because the light caught
just so
arc of paint from a worn-down brush,
bright against the gray — a curve carved into time
by muscle and memory
not a line to cross,
but a whisper that says:
you were here
you are still here
you will be here again
his palm still sticky with color,
his brother’s voice in the air:
“orange arc in your palm” —
was it poem? was it psalm?
what’s the difference, when the court
is a chapel
and the shot is a prayer?
By Lucy