She rolled her memories like pebbles in water
And found them cold.
She tasted her love as she grew,
She learned to pick the sinews and gristle
Out and the length to chew it into something tender.
She found her soul:
Filagree glass cored with light.
She counted her children on her fingers
And unfurled lengths of pictures of narratives she'd forgotten.
Counts of ages added hash marks to her skin.
Her eyes ate the images in magazines,
Hungered at her young's youth
And made her smile ache.
Every piece she counted, she collected
In crystalline language
Stored in lengths of light in dreams.
She was justified, that Just If I
Could Be Every Of The Other Happy Girls
Every Of Them Might Be Me.