I knit my house
of muscle,
fed on little nothings
who never came
before me,
I was the first
of muscle,
fed on little nothings
who never came
before me,
I was the first
born into the caul
of my mother’s
sorrow, tight as a smile,
but grief alone
could have grown me
into a girl
the world would recognize,
instead I nursed
on milk thick
with steel
rebar, followed
her face,
a dark planet
turning,
as a child she held
my hand when I fell
asleep or crossed
our little street,
I remember,
her palm warm
and dry, her fingers
wrapped tight,
the atoms in her hand
repelling atoms in mine
