Still shorter than my hip
but solid, heavy as a scooped-full
coal scuttle, hair so fingerwrapped & knotted
it stands in coils about her ears & won’t comb flat,
cherubic, with that dimpled roll of fat above the buttocks
the stubby painted angels carry brightly, her feet & hands a fan
she opens frequently to admire the slotted hinges of her bones,
to blow between the gaps, arm-skin like powder down,
an almost-constant frown atop a round bright box
with treasure in it: seamless lips, even teeth,
eyes that loop the swallows up

on their traceable tethers
to harry them, upside down, into
the huge room of her brain & make them fit
the vivid, random furniture preassembled there—
buttercup petals crushed on her palm, the Teapot Song,
dust motes & the taste of rust, shadows under her cot that grow
vast without a night-light, hunger, always satisfied,
its own fat child in a caul & sleepiness a wall
you dig-a-hole-&-curl-up under—
where they leave their threaded
flight path like the imprint
on a carpet of a stain.