I wasn’t a girl back then. I was wearing nylon dresses with clay sleeves. I was wearing heels and bracelets made of muddy pretzels. Back then, only mothers delivered babies. I wasn’t a girl back then. The zipper of the days pulled up smoothly to the chest. I wrapped my hips in plaid evenings. Sadness grew clearly, its cogs screeching. Mothers were anthills and we could have taken shelter. I would surprisingly put on their raincoats as big as a house. And then, suddenly tall,