Often tease my hair
with lips stained ruby red
and walk through a hint of perfume
checking all of my angles
before I sit down to write.
As if preparing for courtship or celebration,
I practice the art of lighting a candle
I cannot see.
Ritual grounds palpable anticipation
so I don’t fly away
emptying, yet plump
with the daunting task of building something
in the air
with too many pieces
Knowing I can only summon all versions of myself
and still this is a lot to hope for.