the girl knits a collection
of odds and ends –
various plastic containers,
glass jars for holding candlelight,
vintage books as coffee coasters –
this is how she values herself.
she scatters them like tiny diamonds
into the folds of her tiny home and
waits, broad-shouldered, for someone
to ask what she thinks of late at night.
where most would turn their heads
she curls tired branchy fingers around
a decades old mirror that fogs at the
edges; she sees nothing in its frame
and desperately she buys it anyway.
then there is this:
she is cooking for two
with eyed potatoes from
the three-tiered fruit basket
beside her kitchen window.
a single battered apple
is sliced into depressing
origami shapes on an
old cutting board.
a chilled pot of coffee complete
with floating sediment is placed
beside two ceramic mugs each
depicting the flag of New Mexico.
she sets the table with
her bones as cutlery and
folds her hands in prayer,
thanks no one for such a feast.
she unfolds a newspaper in
her lap – August 3rd, 1998 –
and looks across at herself,
every morsel already gone.