In a Connecticut summer, squirrels’ food
scatters the ground and waits to harass the feet.
I run un-appalled, careless.
The squirrels: They are diligent to inspect
what they put in their mouths.
Out front, maple leaves look like animal hands,
and by fall, they are trapped in wax paper.
I am a girl, and I am small:
only the sun is fat.
In a kitchen, my aunt cuts too much watermelon
and plucks red and green grapes into variously sized
ceramic bowls.
The plates bearing sliced cucumbers are round and thin.
In another, Gram throws out the Halloween candy.
By thirteen, my mother is pleased
about two Fig Newtons. I am pleased to get two hands
around my thigh.
As an adult, I am as swollen and fuzzy as the fruit
I eat too much of.
It is ironic: beneath a fat moon, I run night by night
a 3-mile stretch of sidewalk into my youth to keep
my tongue quiet.
Roots split open the concrete.
Everything is partial and specific.
Even when speaking to myself—about myself—
I avoid full sentences: I was,
but am told I am not…
small. As nature tends to winter bodies,
I swear off rain—swear off the pattern of the world
before it angers and weeps: take the dog out,
make tea, listen for…
drums of someone’s making in the sky.
