Perspective

Up my arms.  

Down my back.  

Around my legs.

I hold my breath so that I can feel

with all of my pale, porcelain skin

Crawled and marched and tickled

whispers of "I'm right here," and "I see you," and "you belong to me."

The screen door creaks and rattles and slams 

and Mom steps out with a high-pitched, oh-gosh, eek.

So thrilled was I of the attention and acceptance and awe-some that I did not, could not, consider

what Mom would think, or say, or do.

She leaves me alone with them only long enough

for me to bask in a thousand pinprick kisses, 

and she returns with a protective purposeful plan.

The woman cries as she sprays with the bottle of cleaner or hairspray or whatever it was that her hand found first as she dashed in and out of the apartment to reach her four year old daughter, covered and dotted and ---- ---  --- - ----- -

Porcelain skin, a canvas or temple or mass graveyard for   -- - -- - 

and fresh freckles - the memorial to the souls of a thousand loving-biting-deceased 

ants.