To wait is to want more.
Or to think you want more.
Take a look backyard for the stitches
that seam everything together.
It’s unruly back there, yes, but
when there is time, weeds
want and want, an infinite
accordion—to want what they
cannot have, no mirrors
to show them how they look or
lie. How many toys
do children need? For my home,
a rug, yoga mat, clear wax
candles, bath rack with bubble
crystals, a man. You are not for sale,
but other women do not
know this. You do not bother
telling them. I am tempted
to dial each of them up, to inform
them (because of my compassion)
of their safety violation. Wait.
Dig a garden. Eat only junk food.
Buy a strange pet with short legs.
Always pick up the phone when you call.
—"To Want " from Circle by Victoria Chang. Copyright © 2005 by Victoria Chang. Used by permission of Southern Illinois University Press.