In defense of stale Cheerios and 1/3 measuring cups
i fit into if i curl up like a cinnamon roll. 

On Tuesday nights my worries fit
into 3/4 of a cup and that's lucky
because my body takes up 
1/3 when i coil-- a pecan viper--
a cinnamon bun boa-- who has always
been scared of the cold-- you've taught me since

i learned to eat that these bodies 
were meant to be whole-- 
that when God plucked a rib 
from Adam to make Eve that
she wasn't ever meant to 
fully reside in any of the 
spaces she baked herself into-- she'd
still be 1/24 a sliver of someone
else's bone-powered measured
off to make cinnamon rolls--
that's what we do-- we measure 
and bake with our ribs--

take the knife
across my brow to level off the stray 
flour on my forehead-- 
in the sign of the cross--

we're baking
muffins you say-- as if it were obvious--

you don't notice
i measure every movement from
my feet walking morning
to the crinkle of my neck bone
against the pillow-- trying to burrow
deep enough to sleep-- to the 
stale Cheerios next to the coffee machine
that i don't eat for breakfast--

i like my cereal stale
because it tastes like yesterday
and forgetting.
it reminds me of the foam packing peanuts 
they used to ship me to my mother.
i arrived in pieces to be assembled
like a ikea bed frame

She told me she's sorry
she's still looking for one bolt
of the 24--

i was born into the 1/3 of a cup 
where i wake up and sometimes
you make me feel like 3/4--
like a tuesday-- like danger and
like overflowing-- we all measure
more sugar than we need into 
muffin batter if we're making them for
someone else--

and i think i've been scared of us 
because you've never noticed
how i take up 1/3 of a measuring cup
and i feel like sometimes i might
have 24 ribs when you wipe
the bone power from my sleeves--

you say that people we're meant for
measuring cups

it's hard because
i was born into one. 

That's why
i'm the baker and you're the chef--
there needs to be some order or
someone always forgets the
baking powder-- and then no 
one will rise but i know
love wasn't meant for measuring cups--

i just want to know
how much space we fill 

but i shouldn't
and i won't
and i can't

i'll scoop the stale Cheerios.
you'll watch and 
forget that i measure
everything but us.