the stork brings me basinettes of jars.
swaddled melons & a bowl of pins. useful enough items.
so, i usher them inside & used them to fill 
the baby room. it's a place only i can open.
a door the size of my hand. turns wide
like a card. inside is nothing but pastle.
i close my eyes & dream of fingers. dream of 
laminated gender roles where i am a mother
of all kinds of softness. i consider the stork
& his hollow bones. how heavy a baby would be
to lug from the other side of the clouds to here.
wings beating again wind. the baby, asleep
like a thumb. sometimes i order food & 
it's delivered by a boy on a bike. i give him
a tip & he turns into a frog. all princes 
are not worth having so i take to kissing stones
in the hopes of uncovering a witch. what does it mean
to want a family? i cut the melon & eat
sweet guts for days. cold from the fridge.
baby room shutters like an eyelid. i tell
no one about it. beautiful little secret.
under the floor boards there worms write 
messages to me like "please be gentle to yourself"
& "stop coming here." i simple ignore them.
pretend i don't believe in language. 
cradle each jar until it fills with red jam.
stork arrives again with fresh peaches.
how rude of me to wish to refuse his kindness.
i want to tell the stork "i need something
to make me feel loved?" but what would he do with that?
often, i see him stopping for a snack 
at the edge of the lake by my apartment.
i carry the baby room there & wash it off.
a mobile hangs from the white hot sun:
airplane & planets. once i was small 
& kept a secret. once i ate jam from
a thimble in the great darkness of storks.
now i have so much daylight i try to sell it.
tunnel into the baby room. plug in nightlights.
wait by the window for more jars & more pins.

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