my love will have a cradle and a blanket and
a mobile with the planets hung crookedly and
carved into the center of Jupiter
hovering far above Earth,
her mother’s favorite emblem of luck and
expansion,

with a butter knife and an old eyebrow pen
the only poem I felt strong enough
never to rework:

 

rest girl,
you do not earn your birth.

 

12.

 

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