The creases of my wrists are the same as my mother’s,
in the same way the bridge of my nose matches hers
and the straight line of my chin matches my father’s.
I share his love of silence beside the ocean and
the same pointed pinky toe as him, I share
her love of sprawling, late hour chats, and his
tender heart for the mysteries of this world.
What clever magic that
the stuff that makes them up
would be split and rearranged
that I get to carry on
the creases of her wrists and
the straight line of his chin.