Proof of Current

I rolled my sleeves to wash the dishes

and the overhead light

caught the veins at my wrist —

blue-green, forking

under skin so thin

you could read the routes

like a map left out in rain.

The water was warm.

It ran across them

and I stood there longer

than the dishes required,

watching the way the current

beneath the skin

and the current from the faucet

moved in different directions

toward different ends.

Not beautiful. Not frightening.

Just factual:

I am alive and the evidence

is visible today, here,

between the soap and the sponge

and the plate I've been holding

for thirty seconds

without washing it.

The body makes its own argument

for existing. It doesn't ask

if you agree. It branches

and continues,

blue and blind beneath the surface,

whether you look

or not.

I looked.

I don't know what that changes.