MY TEENAGE DAUGHTER
Dopamine rush.
Large muscle cut
on her thigh.
So high, she flies
belly down on the blade
of a ceiling fan.
She sees a less rage-filled
version of herself below
playing in a cardboard box
filled with packing peanuts.
Designed to tangle,
they cling with the sting
of static electricity,
form a nest like the family
I’m trying to hold together.
If only she would grasp
one of those mint-colored foam pieces,
take her exacto knife,
dissect it, examine it under a microscope,
see the grooves and hollows
within its body,
like her body,
like my body.
If only there weren’t
knives and razors,
and blades
in pencil sharpeners.
DASH