I am tall but I know many good ways
to make myself disappear: jeans on the
subway, button-downs in the hospital. One
December morning my boyfriend said I
looked like a cat with its paws curled
against its face, and I thought of all
the times I’d flattened around doors, melted
into trees, huddled under my car’s steering
wheel, all sixty-seven inches of me, passing
time breathing air against space. I practice
disappearing so much you’d be surprised
at the weight these bones can hold. There are
galaxies in my orbits, precious metals
in my mallei, so don’t worry if I can’t be found:
my neurons are anchors dug in concrete.