where God crafts bodies,
I was made,
and am still, every
instantiation a choice
from infancy upwards. Adult selves
still get dreamed into being, their shifts
in size and wrinkle. When time to make
my body at thirty, God decides
to make me a vulnerability, a longing, a lie
expired. I know I am made to be
pressed here against my car,
on an empty street, with your hands on my chest.
To want to stay. Made new so I might step
out of my character, or as it were, further in.
In some gelatinous ether by Megan McDermott | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
