WHAT I WANT

In 1986, I wanted brown leather clogs with braids on them.

I was twelve, and my father walked store after store

with me at Regency Square Mall, searching.

But my feet were too narrow, and I was left wanting.

Now, I want what I have.

Gold bracelet on my right wrist, perfectly circling it.

On my left hand, ringless fingers.

Tea mug in my palm, held by a softening belly.

Black cat sleeping at my side, both of us still

in bed.

I want good friends (I have these),

good cousins (I have these too).

Most importantly, I want time

to spend with them: jokes, dancing,

sympathy. I want us all

to be fluent in sign language.

Not yet, but soon I want a lover.

Someone who worships my body,

who has a body I can worship, too.

I want touch and pleasure and excitement.

I want my sons to walk the world

knowing how much I love them,

not burdened by that love.

I want to remember the Redbud

outside my window when she's gone, the way

her leaves hold water,

glistening on the green