Theory of Care

Magnolia trees that open their flowers
like doves coming to wingspan. Fresh
soup dumplings, hot gelatin running
down my face before I flick a napkin
across the downpour. Husking tomatillos
with a light hand so the paper stays
whole. Mesh underwear from the hospital,
the kind that holds my stomach without leaving
any lines. Also ribbons, for every reason.

How I mix extra sugar into gnat traps
to make the death a little sweeter.
Rolling back the sheets on both sides
so the bed feels less empty come morning.
A temporary tattoo from a wet receipt:
parsnips…$3.92 in reverse type
I read over and over while trying to sleep,
as if a ghost has decorated my body
for possession. Learning to stand
in the mirror, naked and still.
Postcards I send to myself for myself,
expensive chocolate, a junk drawer
I never clean—little gestures
without direct translations.

Crossing out my name on a birthday card
so my grandfather doesn’t spoil the day
trying to remember me. Tangerines
half off. Changing a fever cloth, which is far
more intimate than sex. Sex. Reaching
to pull back the covers out of habit
only to touch her shoulder, kiss it twice
before she leaves. Cookbooks dog-eared
for single-serve recipes. Giving myself an egg
to crack for breakfast even though I’m terrified
of breaking things. The little breath in my throat
when I tell myself, Go on, it’s alright,
glory shooting through my fingers
until I’m flush and spent.
The way a body can be a prayer,
its answer.