hat boxes of baby photos; i float away on
a bucket of hearts

you keep my baby photos 
in the green hat box
on the top of the book shelf
in your bedroom.
sometimes i go there alone to
look--
spread them out on your
unmade bed & try to determine
which ones are me & which
ones are my brothers--
the images of myself disturb me--
a fist of dough wrapped
in knit blankets-- 
i don't like to see myself
so unwritten-- the 
folds of my skin 
twisted like the legs
of a balloon animal--
i don't know what my
unformed self thinks 
of me-- 
it judges--
laughs frilly like
tiny socks & bronzed shoes--
sees the freckles
spattered on my face--
the craters scooped out
of my skin--
the match stick marks on
my forearms
when i lit myself like
a birthday cake--
it sees all of that 
& responds with 
a smile big enough to 
devour us both--
you took a series of pictures
of me laid against a painted
red & pink heart background--
i look at the camera like
one would stare into
the mouth of a star--
i float-- suspended
in a bucket of hearts--
all the perhaps
you saw in my body--
what do you see when 
you look at me
small & hungry & soft?
i spit myself out like a peach
pit-- flip over
all the sets of baby eyes
still sprawled out on your bed--
do you take out the pictures
when you sit up late at night?
do you bemuse over
the wad of dough you
once could call a child--
were you excited for me?
could you have known 
the words i would write
onto my skin?
i pack up the hat box &
at night sometimes i
dream i'm holding myself
in a picnic basket--
draped in a red & white
checker board clothe-- i set
myself to float down the river
like moses--
i kiss my own forehead before 
i let the handle go--
tell myself 
no to take directions from
bottle caps-- float
float
float 
on a handful of hearts.