I lay down next to my child as she sleeps.
Three years ago today she was a ceramicist
molding the elasticity of my skin—
(A foot!—A trail inside the sand of me.)
Now, she is more than half the length of my body
as I lay next to her—
untogether and together-still.
She rolls over towards me, heavy with sleep—
The only feeling better than watching her come
towards me
is watching her ditch me
at parties and playgrounds—ditch me
with the sparkle of a college senior.
But right now—in sleep—the foot—
it finds me—kneads
at my stomach
and makes an earth of me.