We have a house in the suburbs & it is quietenough here to hear when flowers burst.When buds open their mouths to speak. It is spring.We have two kids & I stopped painting my nails.We have two prescription bottles of anti-depressants& your loneliness swallows them all one night.We have a roof that doesn’t leak & a Saturn Vueof mercury with squeaky brake pads.Every time we slow down it soundslike the car is warning. What small nag.Want. We speed up & our backs press flatagainst the seats. We speed up & want is the humof the engine, the street lamps blurringpast. We can’t move.We bought a vehicle of want.Our hearts rot oppressively in the trunk.                        You tattoo an arc of I am, I am, I am.                         Want under your left breast. You dye your hair                         pink. You have your mother’s smile                         & your father’s sense of humor. When he yells,                         your lips flare & sun-scorch the walls,                         radiating an attractive array of want.                         I am not a good Chinese boy.                         Your grandmother cries over dinner                         but you say you are very, very happy.                                                          I am eight & the boy I love lives in the attic.                                                          I am eight & covet my sister’s flower dress.                                                         No one tells me I can’t have the boy & the dress.                                                         My want lives in marigold fingertips.                                                         My want is the god of touch. My want petals                                                         in spring & blooms all summer.