by Dorsía Smith Silva
You give me 3/8 of you, but I
want at least 4/5. I want
the gaping parts that are blushed away,
all of the alien leftovers, and stale
crusts from sandwiches. Give me
the lonely lint in your front
pockets, the extra blue buttons
hinged in the inner flaps. I want
your back and forth and back
again palindrome of webbed body
veins, half-splotched shorthand scribbles
turned sideways on Post-its. You’ll be
the perfect fraction that forms and reforms,
in which I take more than what it gives.