To have a door! The back of which she could
wake to, smile at, brush her girl lips and hips
against. At night, she’d sit cross-legged
on the floor, press her knees to the door’s face.
In her room, she’d deny her mother
entry, adorn herself in costume jewels
and pick her hair out round. She’d say yes
to her own face, neither too dark nor too much her
daddy’s. In her mirror, she’d perfect her
smile—with teeth, without—smack her lips,
play woman without her mother’s boyfriend
telling her feed me a little a this
fish. She’d take her cue from Martha Reeves,
jerk and gyrate. She wouldn’t need nowhere to run.
