the mother is the only part

i will never see. the end of the book

i refuse to open and read with the lines

of a song or a prayer i want to

use but only the picture part

only the part that reminds me of inspecting

that cookie as i walked up the stairs

minding legs minding legs and watching

the faces of others as they sank

into mine bridges built halfway then

gutted under the light and the bat

that one night in the hallway. my legs

on a chair my face exploring other pages

of the internet with words writing

prickling open spaces trying to hide the

eager scientist behind the craving

that beneath me sucked the woman out.

i am a hanger facing the wall

the clothing on me chafing

the girl who walks with a muffin with hips

the girl i was and the girl i am

the girl is a woman who walks with pen

on her shirt who has a black skirt

the girl and her shoes and the girl

who sits little under the night and

begs it for dreams.