that I want to compare to mine
though I am sure it remains
foreign & like the rest of you
a lighthouse i once dreamt
fit in my small pale hands Dear
Leona I want to windstorm
the parts of you that mean
the least to me The curious swish
of your scare- curved back
undressing in the moonless
ambivalence of a clinic The shh
of blond hair meeting sanitized tiles
almost comforting but broken
as a mother’s promise to wake