blue cardigan with the silver threads woven in &
night city windows that dot the dark like girls
do when guys aren’t around.
We could circle the earth: honey bees
assigned jobs by other honey bees. We resemble
our mothers: more optimistic than biblical,
we were born craving sugar. She had the spots
all stitched, wishing everything would stay
built up beneath her fingernails—no forgetting
the old color of the amaryllis or shoes with soft
insides walking across a frozen lake. If x means y
& x was built in pieces, I am a giant with an
overbite; I have hundreds, hundreds of vegetables
in my fridge, necklaces in Ziploc baggies, little
plastic tigers, floor length sequin gowns, dog stories.