after Ada Limón
If I didn’t feel so unworthy after lying, I’d tell you
my body shines in daylight like a pile of pennies,
stack of wishes some hand dipped into to pull out
a perfect human. But no matter how much I’d like
to be gold, this is not how I was born
This is not how two people in their forties make a child.
There was no fountain involved, nothing melting together
but two hushed shrugs. Growing up, I scrubbed myself hard
each night, searched for something under
but found no shine in me.
I’m not money. There is never too little of me to love.