I Made My Bed
by tucking in the corners. But the sheets weren’t tight enough. You could never bounce a quarter off it and catch it in your fist.
I made my body by tucking in the waist, hunching into my breasts to make them smaller, standing sideways in photos. Don’t show the teeth (too big, cover all laughs with hand). I wouldn’t eat corn because it left itself behind, stuck in crevices. I didn’t want to be a perfect girl—I didn’t want to be a girl at all. I wanted the kind of shadowy presence that poets have, the gliding-along-a-sidewalk that makes people—men and women—forget themselves for a moment.
I could never get high enough grades, never have enough lovers, love enough, never makeanythingexactlyperfect, not the way that a dream is:
how it floats up, three-dimensional, infinitely balanced and can go in any direction. Really, there was no time for sleep.