I want to learn to make coffee
and drive a stick-shift car,
see clouds without sunglasses
and make mashed potato volcanoes.
I want to tear bread with my teeth,
make snowflakes from scrap paper,
taking care to fall into bed each night
white-lipped with exhaustion and
filthy with freckles.
I want to gag on salt water because I am swimming in the sea.
Each day in the years since I learned to walk upright
I have forced my feet into shoes.
But I will not put away childish things.
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