the blue-green veins
traced beneath the skin around my wrist
distract me
I press my fingertip against one,
feel its soft throb,
and am suddenly aware of an intangible something
pulsing and quivering inside me
a graceful tangle of muscles,
its arching curves contracting, expanding
and red blood rippling smoothly
through countless veins and arteries.

somewhere along their labyrinthine lengths
they split and fray
into a warm net of fine threads.

abruptly, I feel sorry for my heart
caught in such a dark cage.

sorry, because it has never felt
the bright sun.

My sister wears a golden necklace—
a delicately engraved coin
strung on a slender chain.

she found it the other day,
lying where she’d dropped it nine years back
in an old box she forgot about
and says she now remembers
a relative from far away
–China perhaps
who knew the meaning of the pendant’s faint inscriptions
and wrote them for us.

but the meaning is lost,
and the soft-gold characters are blurred and faded
like oft-recalled memories.

My sister wears a chain of Chinese gold around her neck.
it leaps curving upwards from her throat
twisting and flickering
reflecting myriad points of light from the winter sun
as we run and laugh,
chasing the wild geese

Twelve eggs
or roses or cups of yogurt
or loaves
or kisses
is a dozen.

Twelve cents
is a dime and two pennies
a nickel and seven pennies
two nickels and two pennies
but there is no twelve-cent coin
if there was, what would it be called?

There are
twelve months
in one year

There were
twelve tribes of Israel
twelve apostles
twelve days of Christmas

and in my high school orchestra
twelve violinists
bending and swaying
to music shining from their quivering strings

There are
twelve minutes in
one-fifth of an hour, (an absurd amount of time
used by no one,
but quite tidy
--why don’t we
divide our hours this way?)

Twelve squared:
one gross.
an obsolete measurement
of days gone by
--when there were clapboard general stores
that sold pickles.

please,
draw this week-old
filly for me.
tug out sweeping charcoal
lines onto the paper.
with soft willow draw
each curving, yielding detail:
the fringy mane, lamb’s tale,
sloppily knotted joints.
she’s an inquisitive
rascal.
catch that in her eyes as she
edges towards me.
draw her stiff-legged
joyful
bound away,
draw her curved neck in
one soft stroke.
she’s locked into the
matching curve of her mother’s
flank
and as
curve echoes curve
milk comes, peace holds,
and she shows me
glory.
draw it if you can,
this naked little filly,
my body is not
so bare
and innocent as hers.