Ninety-three.

It is July. This means
my thighs stick together
in even the darkest rooms,
I do not want to eat food
above a certain temperature,
and I don't like this
any more than winter, and
I'm always on one side
of the window, of the fence,
of the door, or the other.

At this point
in my life I have memorized
the feather patterns on two
dozen songbird wings,
approximately one hundred and
fifty-four recipes,
and seven city grids.
I have not lived. Enough?
I have not lived enough.

Sure, there is a quiet grace
in miniature houses
with robin egg shutters
and muted fields without wildflowers.
But the two important truths:

1. I am coming back
from the dead.
2. I do not know how to love you
in an interesting way.

And the problem is,
something in my chest
is expanding at an alarming rate,
but it is not expanding
for ___. It's similar
to the way I feel about horses
and courageous women
and my discomfort at the word
"small." Why is it
that I suddenly want
only bold
and galloping things?