by Hannah Castro

An identification of sorts, a name written in skin.
Vast lines cascade every which way—no two the same, they say,
though from a distance, difference disappears.

A résumé written in skin:
calluses, bruises,
the quiet erasure of baby‑soft beginnings and smooth wonders of innocence,
almost as if smooth is a sin.

The scars pierce deeply as the patterns are etched,
drawn haphazardly in the mess of formation.
They belong to the only ones who carry both none and all
of the disfigurement divinity and humanity allow.

Some palms are worn thin
by voices never heard,
by tables never offered.

Open wide, spread in a posture of surrender and hope,
prayers are proclaimed, and presence begins.
Held high,
used to wave themselves—leaves and hands alike—
in leaden hope, deliverance, and creation through the Hosanna revival.

No more than the truth found in an unclenched fist,
held steady before the brutality to come—
the God who refuses to close
even as the blows gather.

Singing signs and songs of surrender,
wading as shadows thin,
proclaiming light when lifted high
toward the One enthroned
who now moves among us
like wind.

The leaves show signs of wonder and praise when waved,
when bowed down with the very same that bear them.

The palms are brought forth and presented to the Most High,
whose very own are scarred and beaten,
broken open by our weary surrender.

Palms bearing palms.