In days I will be completely rebuilt
from the girl I was when I was eight, blood sweet with a different dust,
bones singing in different shades of dig and bury.
But I will still know all she taught me, how to move
like gusts of leaves, how to pretend not to be waiting
for anyone. I know I have unraveled since then,
pulled out some of the fishing stitches in my tongue,
though I know there is still more than enough rope
to lead me back to that throatless staircase. I have been practicing
turning maps into parachutes, closing my eyes
until my trembling swings
like the only clock, and with my mouth wound-wide,
I love this poem.