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.