Charm

Am I plastic enough. Did I

mold to the right shape—obedient

as water—feel hot, cool, smooth

to the touch. Was I flexible,

was I blue-green, and when dirty,

need just a slick of soap, and then

did I hold you in and repel

all else. Could I take it, heat, cold,

frozen, molten, could I

cover it up. Could I wrap myself

around what you wanted kept,

invisible almost, clear as ice. Could I stretch

and not crack, when I broke

could I break down to powder, to glitter,

to nothing, you hope,

to lace fish or bird or whatever

else except your flesh, could I stay

away from you, when told, get out

of your face. Was I buoyant. Was I

suddenly everywhere. Could I then

be recalled, remade, the strange

clear metal of myself come

back together in another,

fresher shape. If not,

could I just end. If not, could

I teach you how to bend,

to escape, to float—