This poem is part of an ongoing series-- Cosmic Keystones: Objects that Inform My Femininity.
II. Gwen Stacy’s Knee Socks
are in my back drawer, behind
a crumple of too-loose underwear.
She left them three years ago, and I didn’t have the heart
to tell her. She never asked.
On the nights I deem too cold, I pull them up
my thighs with a snap against each leg. Creeping
outside, I sit expectingly on my front porch
ready to feel the transformation of my own anatomy
like adding a chunk of crystalized salt to pitchers
and watching the meaning of water change
and cloud against the drinker’s face.