something moves under the skin that has no single name
it arrives without announcement
a pressure change
a shift in what the body knows before the mind does
carrying every grandmother who stood at the same stove
it keeps turning into something new before it can be counted
so people show up anyway with their forms
already certain which box it goes in
they press their question into the ribs
like a thumb testing bread for ripeness
once by accident a hand found the exact place that ached
and mistook it for tenderness
before catching itself and writing it down as data
they read the intake form and call it the whole report
then demand to know
which box it belongs in
underneath the columns and the forms
is something that has been here longer than their clipboard
a thing that has already been taxed once
tired of being handled like it’s fruit at a market
tired of being lifted and turned and set back down
—lyra moon (the customs officer keeps confiscating the wrong things)
september 18, 2026