I brush the heel of my hand
with salt. The ring in the sky
where someone set a coffee mug,
dried in a ghost crescent. With toothpaste,
I unmarked the sky, I didn’t coast.
The cure, the heat, my own doing, undoing,
I made a bed for Brigid.
I left my clothes on the floor,
my favorite shirt, Let the buttons hold
fast. Spring cleaning - check
does the dust fall in constellated ways?
I brush the heel of my hand,
the cure, the heat my own doing, undoing.
I wear my best cardigan when I carry her out
to check for snow, for housekeeping
matters, if you make it.
The alternative was to use a dummy,
mute and bulky, add the pad,
graft — with a laugh — a covering, to assay
the place where the button gaps,
a flat refusal to lay passive, weight
means art refuses to attend.
At the cocktail party for plus sizes,
the waiters roll their eyes when asked
for water. We wave to be seen, to have all
the options open, to be refilled, all we need
is the check. We are designed to catch
your eye. One has to work to look away
from the multitudes of our measure.