a note card propped against it, in ballpoint:
how many are inside?
hannah’s mom unscrews the top after we all take a guess,
scoops out a handful.
my heart, in her mother’s hands, looks terrible enough to ward off the other
girls – unless i’m something else, and my hair is in a ponytail because it’s
comfortable, and i like the air on my neck
my heart, in her mother’s hands, under the light of everything, the kitchen most of all,
twists into knots and back out again, sailor’s ropes,
thunking against the hull of a dinghy and heave-ho’d into brine
hannah’s mom turns to me, her hair, red to the point of rigid, i get
distracted by her hair,
she wears a tank top with a cartoon of a skeleton on it, and she’s heaving the ropes,
and my heart, and the worms, and the hunger,
right into my palms, and it’s
shifting, sectioned and banded and wet with whatever my heart has,
the mucus that keeps it from drying out on the pavement,
all the (other) girls are looking at the holding
and i close my eyes and i’m standing in this really beautiful dress, i mean
i mean really beautiful, almost to squeezing revulsion, and i’m
lifting the hem right up above the mud so i can run like i’m anywhere else
in another body, with stronger legs and tougher nails,
running like fields of clovers, and i can see
every critter shifting with love and cravings (and frankly,
how often do those things differ
in my body, at least?) under my bare feet,
making everything greener
hannah’s mom rolls the mass into her hands again, the whole thing
still buzzing with runner’s high
my heart goes in the jar,
and we all eat frosting off paper plates,
sugar gritting between our teeth
