“To Want” by Victoria Chang

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.