I need me badly for myself. I hold my own hand in market aisles. I groom my bones at night with a gold pick. I make paper cranes from books because I know the past can't happen. I light cigarettes on the stovetop because I slow dance best in the kitchen. I keep a birch twig in my chest pocket because I am mineral-rich sap grieving upward. I beg for brass earring backs with a flashlight because I am a light succeeding downward. I sing Sappho to myself in the morning because I am born of an island of swelling pelvis. I am writing this to myself because I am I am.