you figure yourself out
of one thing and into another, fashion
yourself with gestures, try your new self out
for size. it all seems out of proportion.
you’ve been much too good at this,
fashioning your anger into something
new. drawing blood, drawing on paper, drawing
breath. your son’s fingers clasp at the space
the air makes between your chest
and his lips. your daughter cuts through
the room like a sprite laughing
at a funeral. you figure yourself into her
laughter, squeeze yourself
into his fist. it is all out of proportion.
out of figuring the size of the ball of your fist
to his own, your knuckles turn white, nails dig in
an impression into your palm. your daughter
rushes to a full stop, holds her hair back, bends
to kiss your son. the gesture leaves you
raw, the base of your spine aches,
your son’s limbs come to rest on your ribs.
figuring where to go
next, smoke leaves your mouth
gasping.