My kids empty their piggy banks
and send me to the Lego store
where I Facetime them pictures of all the options
because that’s how it’s done these days
I smile at the cashier whose name is Clark
a too-long knowing smile
that you save for strangers
whose circumstances you can relate to
like ferry line-ups in a windstorm
or a virus inking across a slippery world
my daughter begins building as soon as I get home
and I am cutting her a mango when she says to me
mama, wouldn’t it be so cool
if they made a Lego hospital set
I look at my hands sticky with yellow pulp
and I suddenly I wish I was back at the store
where Clark would take one look
and he would understand
how unreasonable it is that our skin is so thin
he would smile in a sad yet comforting way
and it would mean
what delicate sacks we are
for all these bones.