You: but without the face or the stomach.
You have hands made of baby teeth. I keep my baby teeth
in a jar like glassy coins. Here, you may take them. Here,
you may give them to your daughter. She is six
years old. She is clamping down on your fingers and telling you
how sharp they are and telling you that you need
to shave. You are thinking about how the last time you
shaved you began collecting bits of your fifteen-year old skin.
You are with her for another three hours. You spoke your
first word when you were two years old. You have never
worn a wedding dress. You are thinking about her mother, you
are watching your daughter drink a milkshake; chocolate. She has
bones that look just like your face. Everything now is so full of salt, even her small body.
She looks folded in half like a mantle piece. She lacks certain fire.