I.

The barista calls me ma’am 
because I am makeupless—the pink 
of my Polish skin and the South’s
sun spots pocking my cheeks—
and my wide hips are in yoga pants
on a Wednesday, mid-morning. 
I easily ask about milk alternatives

	because I have learned 
	the language of passing
	for calm and unconcerned 
	with guns.
	
II. 


I keep signing petitions 
online with an email address, 
	
	not with the pressure 
	of my name. 

III.

I try to count the women
who’ve shared their prescriptions— 

	turn off the news. Do not think
	outside yourself for a while. 

I can hear the echo of fainting
couches and yellow wallpaper. 


IV.

All day, all night
the body intervenes. 
	I keep holding guilt
	in my mouth, regardless. 

V.

No one wants to be Atlas, 
but we all want 
	the body,
	the name.