doles out enough words
to tease the snap, to blow up
the likes, the secret men
by the tens
scrolling by, stopping
for twelve beats
to pinch zoom the titles
of books on her night stand
they run their eyes over her
mother’s heirloom quilt
fashioned in times when to turn
a man’s head, all one needed
was lace and churn
it’s what she does
to curate imaginary
numbers, those viral
passers by asking
to see all of her, working
the long division
of labor illuminated
by a ring light, she calculates
her next move under a skin
of their adjectives
Friday Writings #243: By the Numbers
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