this is where we give back our finger prints.

it is a little known 
fact that the grim reaper's primary
task is to collect our finger prints
to be re-cycled onto new bodies--
he wipes them off
with the ratty-blue dish towel
from the downstairs bathroom--
the one you dry the cutting
boards with when
your father in done cutting watermelon
in july--
death holds the labyrinth lines
that once made up your body
& saves them on the
surface of an ink stamper
tucked into his black robe--
he apologizes for
taking them as if you had 
another option--
he kisses your forehead
as you lay on the sofa--
runs a bone hand over your
cheeks to steal back the freckles--
they jingle in his
satchel like dislodged
sleigh bells &
your face feels lighter than it ever
did-- he pulls the wrinkles
from your knuckles &
knots them the cord
drawn around his waist--
he had begun the steady process
of dismantling a body--
the work is slow until
you find weeks drowning
in your skin-- I
eat time 
twirled on a fork--
angel-hair & spaghetti--
i'm keeping myself together
in secret--
this city of a body
is still a place to get lost
in & as long
as we remember our fingers--
we can turn these bodies
back into subway stations--
we stop in Staten Island
& you comment about the graffiti
& how there's nothing 
left of art & 
a bent trumpet
echoes in the deep trenches of
my thumbs--
you said music is quiet--
i always fall in love 
by accident again-- it's always
at this stop--
& i always disagree with you
& fall out of love 
& assume you never tried
to
hold onto a thumb print--
i disappear
with the sway of the train
the water from the channels &
river ways rushes around me--
there is no body like new york--
her finger print eternal &
brilliant & kept in the robe
pocket of the grim reaper 
who secretly believes in anything but
death-- 
i've kept my finger prints
saved stamped in ink
on the back cover of my
notebook-- i show them off
to boys who think too much
about dying to prove
there's a way of
holding things still--
i hold my whole
body by the noose of a grip
hanging from the ceiling of
the train--
i turn to you who sits next
to me & tell you
i would give up
my finger prints
if they would use them 
as the blue prints for
another city like new york--
& you tell
me as the doors open
& the machine breathes
that
they already have--
that you know
you've taken a
walk in central park
& been reminded
of nothing other
than the pathways i
keep trodden in
my hands-- 
oh death will have nothing
to do with my finger prints--
i retrace the patterns 
so i won't forget--
you said you always
wanted someone
to get lost
in.