Amy Lee Heinlen
I find things I think you would like.
Mostly the beautiful hair
of young women in magazines.
I thumb through dimples, glossy
teeth, slim wrists, lanky
everything. I find curves to trace,
slice out and arrange,
lacquer over for my own.
What of me and my anxious hands,
my freckled skin, and small breasts,
my need to breathe, to shit, to eat
would you want to collect,
discard, paste down, if you could?
Letters never sent? Make-up sex?
My oils, my hairs, my flesh?
Since you left, I assemble these perfect
combinations. Not one of them is me
or what drove you to leave.