Jenn Givhan
Wishing For More & Never Enough—
What more did I want than this, child? Than you stretched
taffy horizontal across my bed, a little black chihuahua
on your lap? What miracle would I erase
for a sizzling new day, a razzle in the heart & another
day’s fade. My mother dipped her napkin into a glass of ice
water before rubbing dirt or jelly from my face. I use
spit. On a plain thumb. Rub vigorously. & not only
when your eyelashes have fallen, child, do I grasp wishes.
I pluck your lashes out. I do. You blink & there I go
with my tweezers for fingers. What did you wish for
Mama, in your little bird’s rasp when we press our damp
hands together & the lash sticks to mine & I hold it
triumphant. The wish used to be you. I used to wish for you.
The ache now: When I tell you my wish, you say
that was yours too.
