Self-Portrait at 44

When I was seven years old
I was sure I was going blind.

I sat on the floor of the bedroom
and stared down the calico pattern on the bedspread
until the little yellow flowers buzzed

into apple red background blurriness.

A stuffed duck dissolved into a furry moon.

The curtains, unsuccessful in their ruffles,

disappeared into the light of outside.

I never told my mother.

How could I harpoon her heart?

“My youngest daughter can’t see.”

Focus and unfocus,
it’s a trick I’ve played through the years.

I still don’t know what I want.

Sometimes I can’t see the beauty in my own neighborhood –

the two workmen on top of the roof across the street

who stretch out, smoke, and laugh into the clouds they make,

or the little girl who tears apart  hydrangeas for confetti.

Command plus plus the view,

take up wearing glasses. See?

Sometimes I’m happy but music pushes me into a lump of tears

and then the song ends and the DJ comes on
with the little jingle that announces the station 

and I feel foolish because the whole day was there all along.

That’s what I want.

For a Young Friend Who Wants a Bra

Nothing yet.

Soon enough the fabric

buckles, deploys boys.

Your lively thoughts play

down the street, overheard

by mothers who wish

they had the energy,

the same instrumentation

of imagination.

Memory shames.

I kept a growth chart

of breast progress,

held a loopy washcloth

over my chest in the tub

and cupped my hands

over the nothing

that was there. I hoped,

and then I lost interest,

and packed a bag

to run away from home.

I lost interest in that too,

the idea sillier than

saving my nickels

for a chihuahua.

Don’t worry.

You’ll grow as you’ve grown,

an arrangement so fetching

you won’t even notice, lost

in the drowsy navigation

of your beautiful days.