Childhood

we were carving away.

quick jabs into Ivory soap
small hands on plastic knives--
we whittled till the bubbles, set free,
surrounded us. the
white slivers smelled like morning.

left with a fragile boat
or wolf
or house
we kept carving, into other things
smaller and smaller each time
like personalities tried on before moving.

stoves burn,
beds break,
plants poison.
pillows suffocate, and
children fall
slivers to the cold tile
and earn scars learning the intimate
dimensions of pain;
of layers carved away.

each accommodated and filed properly
another fear or hate.

my sister next to me on the cold bathroom floor
finished and looked down at me
--our haphazard carvings like a hair salon--
and we pressed the pieces into the shape of our hands
because something there was missing.

and maybe we knew then—

growing up is not a growing but a carving away.