Being a Chicken Nugget Child felt like:
Standing on metal vents with bare feet.
The cold air-lifting me towards
the soup bean pot boiling mystery.
The space between hot and cold
                  where goosebumps form
Cold cement porches with Kentucky blue paint
Layered like tree rings telling time
in lead paint and limestone rain.

I’d pick daisies and deliver them
    to the porch swing to begin my dance
           back and forth toward commitment
man’s whatever it means to be a wanted woman

What did I know about “he” or “love” or “me”?
I just knew “not”
          As an only child up a holler,
          my first word was No
Not yet
     Not me
           Not ready for much more
than blooming
Just blackberry fingers and sunsets
            that lingered deep into the pocket secrets
of the woods like a best friend who
always stays the night.