This is my face,
a spinning plate.
I’m unraveling
as a mother does

a knot from a bow
to astonish you.

In time, you’ll master
the fact that every woman
has been sawed in half
at least a dozen times
before sunset.

Some of us walk through
that wall.
Some of us burrow beneath it.

The rest spend their lives as
bespoke assistants.
Younger siblings.
Bottom drawers
unsticking.
And then a lifetime ignites.

For you, I’ll wish for something else.

I want you to be
a student of impossible binds,
a magician of
a bloom from a fist,
a dove from a dove from a dove.