I am unbalanced — but I am not mad with snow. I am mad the way young girls are mad, with an offering, an offering… I burn the way money burns. - Anne Sexton

I burn the way money burns.

I am mad the way young girls are mad,
with an offering, an offering.

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

I lay there silently,
hoarding my small dignity.
I did not ask about the gate or the closet.
I did not question the bedtime ritual
where, on the cold bathroom tiles,
I was spread out daily
and examined for flaws.

I did not know
that my bones,
those solids, those pieces of sculpture
would not splinter.

Then all this became history.
Your hand found mine.
Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.
Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.
They dance with yours.