1.
She
walked outin snatches,
unravelling
me as she left,
and
no milk. A bear is good
and
my mouth and hands
connect
in relation to it.
I
can't pull it all together.
I
can't, I am little and piecemeal,
it
is too big and manifold here.
2.
That
lady is dangerous. The yellow
one.
She picks up the pieces
and
fits me to the blocks and the trucks
but
fits me wrong.
It
is tempting to fall into place,
but
if it sets I won't fit my mother
and
I'll be alone forever,
and
the order of the world altered,
and
I altered with it,
and
everything I hold dear lost,
and
everything unstable, arbitrary
and
provisional.
3.
She
comes back all of a sudden
in
a tremendous crash,
and
the world shimmers around her
in
and out of order,
and
I across the room
shimmer
into order with it,
strung
across the room to her,
and
my body condenses into action.
The
line between us pulls like hair
but
then she is with me and lifting me
and
there is a word for it,
and
I have huge working arms,
and
soon I'll make some milk.
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