Thirteen. Hatched from foam-
lined plastic that guided the vine

of my spinal cord towards five o'clock
dinner and an hour-long breath.

The other minutes were bathed in sweat,
heat-rash and eczema like blusher

for breasts. Came with a starter package
of undershirts and a book

about a girl curved worse. Its cover
announced another work, tender story

of a cheerleader and her amputated foot.  
I had lost nothing, just grew a little off-

center.  At night I learned sleeping
is a skill, and best positions were bent

knees, arcs to left, shifted organs. Woman
was not a word I yet had said, and now

I latched behind the back, was strapped
into myself. I seemed to wear a coat's

hang-tag: Made of genuine leather.  

Yet, that cast did smooth my stomach,
enlarge hips as if for child-birth, earn itself

a wardrobe and seamstress for the holes
it bore in clothing. I wonder now myself�

what must it have been like
to tap the body as if it were a door?

To live geometry, decreasing obtuse
angles to accommodate lungs, diaphragm?

Like my parents, who mourned their girl's
girlhood, did I marvel at the science? I admit

to open-mouthed fascination when
the plasterer made a mask of me,  

then formed a brace from its mold.
I almost forgot how I clapped

my hands at first sight of leather loops,
rubbed the steel of hook and eye,

whispered in a simple voice�
I must give it a name.