Davening. Head bowed between feet, kissing forehead to earth, paper body folded on the sun-splashed kitchen floor. My toddler is keening in supplication to the Gods of Can. This time can I open the baby gate? Can I hold the knife Daddy uses to cut my blueberries? Can I stand on this chair and finally see what’s on top of the counter? But the governing forces of Can’t are as certain as sunrise and gravity and naptime. When I lift her squirming body and tell her that she can’t stand on …

She says, I don’t think that baby is eating enough, and I poke a pointy finger into its spongy side. But Baby, I say, that baby is a round baby. Round like pomelo, like a panda, like a wheel of Parmesan cheese. That baby is a terrycloth towel full of tapioca pudding. And Baby, that baby is gonna be fine. She says, I don’t think that baby is eating enough, and who am I to doubt her? I am not monitoring frequency and flow, and I only measure throughput in pre-portioned popsicles and tiny …

When I hear the baby, I think it’s a cat that’s been left outside in the rain, that’s stuck in a tree, that’s weaved its weak body into an open pipe and can’t find its way out.  When I hear the baby, I think it’s a tiny jay fallen from a tall branch, its busy bird-mom out running errands. Or maybe it’s a sick squirrel, writhing in pain, like the one I once discovered beneath a bench in Mexico when I was, myself, practically a baby. Not old enough to know any better. I tried to pick it …

On Saturday, diner day at Cozy's, I’d wear my new mascara and order a face-sized breakfast. I’d whisper, “do we look rich?” Grandma wore furs. She said things like “primo” and “I betcha.” We were fancy together. Fancy. Fancy. Fancy. I’d fancy-chant till I was dizzy. Grandma was how I learned to salt my pancakes. “To wake the syrup,” she said. I began salting my eyelids, too, after I first saw her with the palette. Her tender strokes. We lived with tense necks, seized by a …

I am emptying the fireplace ashes so you can make a fire to seduce me. There’s a pile of tossed bills to be burnt because they have information someone might steal. Our signatures. The pile suggests, via nonrelativistic classical mechanics, a closed system: paper made from wood, wood burning paper. No rock. Maybe a pair of scissors is lying around here somewhere. I am filling the bag as fast as possible because seductions are time-sensitive. The height, the weight, the heat, all are factors. …