In our daydreams, we spend
saturday mornings with girlfriends drinking
cappuccinos downtown, discussing the beauty
of autum, the latest bad dates,
how to fold typing paper into herons and swallows.
In our daydreams our bodies belong to us,
the pink nipple, the blood and cramps
our sorrows and rage blended
like war paint around the eyes and cheekbones.
In our daydreams we were born on Earth,
blond, brunette, toe heads, loudmouthed girls
whose pockets are filled with sass and spit.
In my dream, I’m the second of five sisters.
In my dream, no one ever called me their son.