I keep thinking this line from a play: it takes the body
18 years to replenish every cell. We are literally new
every 18 years. When my niece turned ten,
she whispered to me on the phone that ten
was different, she and her friends had special
rituals and wishes. At ten, you knew things,
we knew things. I remember ten: tea parties
under apple trees, in my great-grandmother’s
beaded dresses with my cousin, promising
we’d spend the day before our weddings
together. Forever seemed like soft bat wings,
sweeping and diving. My marriage was 18 years;
my cousin was not there. I am as never before,
am literally new. The sky is full of clouds
settling down like hens. Morning is the time
for hunger. When I can’t sleep, I count backwards,
count beads, count hungers, count orchards.
