My daughter’s hair clips

pastel the carpet. Plastic flowers

I try not to step on.

Even chaos is relative—a mess made

by my longing for order.
As a child, we lived in a trailer,

then a shelter, then a van.

My first memory: my sister eating lunch

from a cupholder. Our lives

so invisible, they felt forbidden.
This morning, in my apartment, it hurts

to be human. Einstein says gravity

can push things apart, but on Earth

it only holds us together. Distance

marked by our having once

been whole. Is this still life,

with no one here to see it?