I am nine. She is nineteen.

I want to wrap her wavy dark hair
around my arm.  Sometimes she catches
her lower lip between her teeth, and then
I can see that there is a way in. I want
to reach out with my pinky finger,
touch the corner of her mouth. The fissure.
But it disappears quickly. Her mouth
is a thin line. It is the path I walk.
It leads to her eyes, which are made
of winter soil. I have a spade.
I am stocky for a nine-year old. If I jump
on the top of the blade,
even frozen earth will give way.
Once, she hugs me. Her ribs are railroad tracks.
I have always been on the train. If I squeeze harder,
she will squeeze harder. She will squeeze me
into a ball of tinfoil. She will squeeze me
into a one-inch cube of bread. I will be small
enough. I will be allowed in. But the railroad tracks
are made of bone, not steel.
She disentangles herself from my wordless arms
and takes a breath. I put my head down on my knees.
I’m still here, but she has chosen air.