I’m fifteen again and hung
over the side of my parents’ bed,
my long hair sweeping
the old green carpet, skinny legs
straight out, making angels
of bedsheets. I’m wanting a boy
to call me back, to call me
his baby his little chicken his
sweet garden
where I grow like the compost heap
below this window, my body
made of lettuce scraps,
bean shoots, clippings
of grass. This afternoon, it’s the same—
a window left open, my hair
again sweeping detritus, dust. You,
your voice not a black cord
I wrap around and around
myself, but a cracked
screen, a dimmed light
and I’m tired of the power I give
you in this waiting, know
that my wanting is your favorite
pastime, your favorite part
of me. I carry
you in my pocket, throw you on
my red couch, sleep
with you on the nightstand
next to my hand lotion, glasses. You could
say I’m theatrical, say all my lines are
cut. I should shove you into a drawer,
finish breaking you.