of what was,
draw circles counterclockwise /
worry the body is / weight
dessert / just ice.
And the dead shouldn’t
circle its breaking.
But I was born with superstitions
in the gift shop / of / personality
change / not my mistake.
And my body will never be still
in the memory of my parents’ home—
father building basement walls
teaches me, his last daughter, to paint
thin layers with each coat,
ration the paint as if my life depended
on each stroke of color saved
/ to position
a nail like a flagpole,
steady / straight,
fear of missing the small, silver target
unable / to not wanting to /
build away
an attic crawlspace: a safe gap
for a little girl before sorrow
metastasized.