Write a doodle poem.
I think I am rehearsing what I would say to her, myself,
if she were me, at 6 or 11
artlessness lost in too-late grace.
The paper maps the cracks and damage
traced in graphite language and fluid black,
memorized ephemerally in pulp and pigment.
Worn again at 17, 21, 27, and 29, now all the time
this recited disguise of tender skin,
my young man’s heart, protected,
tucked beneath the curve of her breast.