On the first day, we are all just hydrogen and time. Filling these hands—
this one mirror angle, one small wrist. One afternoon’s picked-over bones.

The second day, I spun ten times. On the grass, sky turning
its cosmic ballet. The axis of the world, there in the front yard.

On the third day, a hangman’s rope of pantyhose. Easy choices
like stop, and get a ****** or don’t stop, and get a family.

On the fourth day, tick-a-tick-a-ticking. Since I learned
to tell time, cradling has been inescapable and immanent.

The fifth day, I wanted an ovipositor that would glide
and bed, know it’s way around a dark brood pouch.

Day six, caught stealing ancient definitions, stuffing my pockets
and shoes. I’m told zülf  is the wisp of hair falling over my eyebrow.

On the seventh day, I shelved myself and gave back one rib, honey
spines of snakes. What tiny handprints they’d leave if they had hands.