Here, I am reminded again and again, of my hand, clammy, limp, and hidden in the shadow of my sleeve - curled-up bony shell, holding only itself and silence. I am eleven. Memories are sharp touches that when seen, flee their detailed homes, and dull like the soft end of my pencil. Under my desk, I sketch a willow tree. My mother taught me to draw important things, linearly and clearly. She squinted her eyes and opened her mouth and tucked her tongue in the corner. “Like this,” she would say. I, an astute listener, obey her, naturally: On the desk (my desk) sit a bunch of brushes and a cup: water clear, content, and at rest. I am considering meanings of said trees, Meanwhile, platonic beasts all bundled together twiddling with spinning things in their fingers, murk things up, forget to rinse before choosing a new color! Swishing around… Such manners! Lenore is the worst. I used to be the cup. At any rate, this desk is perfect. At night I rest here – my eyes open, mouth closed pensively. In taupe I write my list of fears repeatedly down the tree limbs (all in iambs and with no meter in particular; again, and again, and now with a rhythm my thoughts have cheer. It is unnerving). I unfurl my hand, trace one finger, maturing in my mind a time and a lesson when told I was soft in nature. Often, they find I am paying attention.