Where does the length go. In the form of nearby au lait, I can recognize a shadow of curved moon in my coffee. And on this page, silhouette of fingers rushing from left to right. Shoulders are weighed down by this length and when too much is eaten too fast, locate the leftover bites in hair. She is called girl but what if she were called moon or shadowboxer or boxed letter carver. Jamaica Kincaid clarifies the don’ts onto a page and calls this Girl. Memoirs are written of childhoods called That Time I Decided to Turn Myself Inside Out. Bodies burn their way through pink or blue depending upon indent. What is this song? Is it feminine or masculine. How to remix it into androgyny. She wants to call herself hybrid. Call it robot poetics or cyborg breath control. How does this length go. The roots are body’s punctuation marks. Dots. Dotted. Flashes of instrumental melodies of scratched split ends. She doesn’t want to be called boy, but what would it mean to be treated as one. Grease stained and hard. And bulge. And top. And slicked back. And the one the one who begins. Cannot call these breasts, instead exhaled chest cavity. There’s got to be an other. Twenty-six letters in this English alphabet. How much money must I save in order to buy a vowel.