I stapled my wrist to a telephone poll
and announced I would be selling all my past on Saturday.
Most of the town performs this ritual.
Cradling armfuls of species and heredity.
Preparing coffins for every single fork and infant.
I lined stuffed animals up in a row. For a few dollars
I will let you own the faint smell of my mother and
a quilt that comes alive at night and tries to heal you
with spoonfuls of olive oil. Then, also, the wall clock
only capable of announcing afternoons.
In my anatomy it is always 4pm. Socks knotted
into hearts. Come peruse my grasp. Will you
help me hold on tighter? A seed is something
scattered. Give me a picture of your baby self.
I need to sell it all, Dad said one year.
Stacks of weight watcher magazines. My hands
behind my back. Before I left, I wanted to
have a yard sale of dresses. Closet musk.
Moth-winged shoulders. Who would like
to become a daughter? I have everything you need.