“on all levels except physical, i am baby”

enclosed behind enameled metal door,

waistband of black jeans circling ankles,

i open the missive from my mother

expecting a puppy, perhaps a baby panda.

there is no poetic way to say wholesome

crying—that is, the tears that slake over

heatdried corneas on a february morning

when a singing nugget in my phone

lets me know everything’s gonna be okay

because i love you, i love you & i think about

the trajectory of falling in love at eleven,

dating at twelve & being fourteen &

thinking knowing sex was the only

outcome he would settle for. i think about

a jellycat plushie’s smile & then cry harder.

now i pile stuffed anglerfish, bearded

dragon, purple axolotl holding soft

pretzel in the corner of my bed,

leaning tower against plaster walls. i bleed

my eyes in bathroom stalls when i

think too hard about the forward velocity

of my childhood & start the wondering:

if all things considered, i’m too far gone

now. if i’ll ever be wholesome again.