The miniature heartagram tattooed on my soul
is the one for the love I thought I’d never find.
One of my parents was a beartrap,
the other a pitcher I carried into the night,
convinced it was fragile.
One of my parents I drank, the other I dreamed.
In the revolving door of my becoming,
one yanked me from afar and one stood stagnant.
Thus, my troubled birth, my endless tremor.
One was a question mark, the other a bracket.
How they amused each other.
One was a song, the other a hammer. I was ashamed
of singing, embarrassed I couldn’t fix things.
I was a girl waltzing across the bedroom for love
she couldn’t find.