Thirteen

In one hand
the unfolded view of my vagina.

Or one just like it. Everyone’s got one and it's black and white
printed on tissue paper for half the world to see.

Could just as easily be a maze on a box of Lucky Charms.
I stare hard at it. Already looking for my way out.
There is nothing familiar, no orange stars

to guide my voyage. Instead, this wisp of a figure -
appearing in her short nightie on this schematic
of our privates - elevates her tiny powdered foot
onto the fabric-ruffled edge of her 2" dressing table.
Pink heart.

Together we admire
the balloon shapes of our insides.
Surely they would pop if we got this wrong.
Unlike me, because she is fictional and appearing only
for illustrative purposes, her inside shapes are
empty spaces. Like me, she knows nothing
of yellow moons.
Let alone green.

In the other hand, shiny and white,
the cardboard cylinder, just like the tubes
we build into model rockets after school with Mr. Gatzke.
This one plugged with Purolin. We can be confident
that man-made materials are miraculous.
There is unifying theory on this.
Me and Nightie Girl, we are coming up empty.
I am a young mechanic. I take care as I refold the treasure map
of our unknowable galaxy, shape it into a tight curl.
Slip it inside its secret fuselage.
We're going to need these again later.
Of this we can be certain.
Dark clovers.

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