Like a net my fingers skim
tap water, cleaning mung bean sprouts
the way you showed me.
From my palm I find the whole
ones, fetal curvatures with scalps
blossoming on tiny yellowed skulls.
My nail bisects the vertebrae
from primordial tail, roots
cast away in the sink.
Though I never learned
the purpose, it’s a habit that reminds me
of a time you let me in.