During daylight. When toddlers nap, mothers take their siestas,
men smoke cigarettes after too-heavy lunches. One of many, I am,
one of many beings gazing unblinking into the distance.

I hold my breath until my vision goes white, my skin prickles.
For the sake of breathing, little lungs lined up on cots,
small snores and the orbit of motherhood. How round

can I become, spread like the Vitruvian Man
and plump, ripe as a mango peeled by lamplight.

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Angelica is an Ohioan writer and artist who recently graduated from the University of Michigan, where she received three Hopwood Awards as well as the Quinn Prize for Best Creative Thesis. Her hobbies include embroidering and eating lemons