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.