And sometimes it is
loss

                                                       that we lose,

          and sometimes

it is just lips. When I was

                           a child, I would ask my mother
to tuck me

                             in, wrap me tight in blankets,

            make me into a burrito.

                           Sometimes I would wait in bed,

pressing my body stiff, like a board,

mind like a feather, silly— setting the scene

                        to be seen.

                                          So I could be wrapped.

                                              So I could be kissed.

And what

                                  I miss most,

is being            made                                 again.