we show up on front lawns at eleven
in the morning
in the evening
afternoon
what could you see in me
this is embarrassment and some
pained looks
they’ll have to explain now
it’s like a fear of intimacy
we can’t be their friends
we might slip up over dinner
and move them
their hands and our
bodies loved but rejected
we would cry and come inside
tidy places, these homes
they hide us in the piles of paper
and always remember to let us
straddle them on top
because that way they get to remember
our breasts a little
better than in
that photograph
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n: vb: the spice of imagination