I have the affliction of waiting like a mailbox and 
only eating halves of everything bagels.

Sit with me on the stoney-chinned
front porch steps while I try to cross my legs
like the other girls-- like how they told us 
you're supposed to sit when you wear
a skirt. I sit like my own mother
in the grass in sweat pants with 
flour stains on the thighs 
from pancakes and pecan swirls
that peel apart in ringlets to the edge of 
this galaxy we unravel the gauze of
when we're ten year olds.
Learn how scabs and scars are like stickie notes
to write reminders on--
I've never been able to shake the feeling of waiting and 
waiting to be younger. Younger and standing in underpants
on the front porch in the rain. Older and waiting
to be sixteen and driving big cars and
marrying boys who know how to tie their own 
ties-- and telling myself I don't want
to kiss girls because girls don't kiss
girls
girls kiss boys who know how to tie
their own ties who like girls who sit
with crossed legs and pleated skirts. 
But girls don't have knees like mine
and I'm a person who holds everything
in their knees-- and in the 
wrinkles on their knees like
tree skin or cream cheese. 
I've got this mailbox head hung from
too many check books and magazines and not
enough letters from grandmother
who don't hold pens anymore-- too many newspapers 
rolled like pecan swirls 
thick and sugary with headlines
about next year and how next year
the world is going to end for
a third time. I've been sitting
on this front porch waiting for a particular 
letter and waiting to send another--
I've used my thumb print as a postage stamp
they know it's me-- 
I'm waiting for you to write to me--
the person twenty-years-tall who has
just as little answers as half themselves--
I'm sending a love letter to the person
who will find my knees endearing
and kiss my cheeks like bagels--
dust the sesame seeds off the counter
and count my poppy seeds like stars.
This love letter is for someone who
doesn't tie their own tie and I know
how wreckless that is but I've never been
able to eat a whole bagel so I'll
unfurl myself in two and leave
the other half waiting for
you on this stoney- nose porch while I wait for
the mail truck with answers
licked away in envelopes--
I hope you got my letter and recognized
the thumb print is the same as the patterns on
my knees. 
I saved you the fluffy 
top-half of the bagel.
And you said you loved how
my knees are wrinkled like 
tree skin and cream
cheese.