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 in a pandemic.
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.