I kept an apron drawer—plush full
of gingham flowers. I folded everything
in quarters. At night, I deep conditioned
and rolled my hair till it was glossy
as chocolate pudding, then hung my head
between my knees and brushed: I wanted
a household God, standing straight-spined
in the corner. Let’s say I offer you the last
dregs of my tea; the clementine in my pajama
pocket. Let’s say I blaze a trail of bread crumbs
on a night-hike to your house and in the frost
of a downstairs window, I finger A hearts S
and you can breathe the clear O of your breath
beneath it—opening from your side of the glass.