I wear a crown of eucalyptus

like I was born with it. I grow large

and cranky like a gun, first

powder, then caulk. Shaving cream

escapes from its prison, the smell

of you patted faintly into cheeks. I did

not have the right words for it, for all

the bodies I had ever seen. A loop

bluer than cornflower, mountains

squiggling up, the long drive where I

knew things were going to change. I

flung a washcloth over my shoulder,

took the baby to the pop-up museum

in my head. I was born in this gift

shop. My mother stood with bags

of blood as the boy lie faceless,

skinless, empty but not warm. There

were no teddy bears in that dark

room. When I see you, I see

my father. We will never walk

down that street again.