Plaçage

My skin is itself
a mysticism. And
the voice you hear inside
these rooms you gave me
isn't cursing or casting
spells. I earned them
after you earned me.
With a softer voice and chin
jutted, I earned the street, too.

These corn silky babies barely
amaze, but they remain—
remainders. Their brothers
don't recognize
them, but your wife knows

they are mine—
mostly yours.