I grew my grandmother’s legs
down from my waist. I grew her

unstraight spine.I wrote a letter
on yellow lined paper. I meant to say

I cannot love you. My words grew
a rightward slant. I drew a hole

with my knife and there was
no other world. My hair grew

longer. A nurse stuck my finger
with a tiny needle. I bled

into a tiny carafe. I forgot which way
was south. Everywhere I looked

there was not my lover’s waist.