As girls, our mother tied us into our Sunday dresses
like she was solving a math problem. She taught us how to be
still, lifting our spine strings, pretty marionettes,
cheeks palm-print rosy. I’d like to explain why
you’ll want to be held
by the neck, why the things you don’t say
will line your ribs like blue china.
I’d like to explain why
unearned love will feel like the finger of a boy
snapping your first bra strap,
why that baby copperhead beneath the zucchini leaves
could have killed us faster than its mother.
I’d like to explain why perfume looks best in round bottles,
why a bee goes where it goes.
I’d like to explain why when you draw blood
from him, and him, and the other,
his expression will look like a sunset.
But for today, blow the dandelion and don’t wish.
Trace the parachute’s descent with a white-gloved hand.
Lift the teacup to your lips, careful. Adjust
your straw hat. Sit up straight
like your mother taught you. Press a hand to your cheek.
A daydream: in the distance, a house is on fire.
Foxes cry in the night. Or maybe,
a woman screaming.