A Poem for Tina

A poem for Tina:
A single sequin stitched
loosely, tenderly, tentative
to a top with a fringe who
dances with the bellybutton.


A poem for Tina:
The smooth shell of
soft page, pinned ginger between
two paper fingers. A satisfying
flip with ineffable sound.


A poem for Tina:
Red lacquered ladybug,
her wings’ persistent pulse 
with fortitude beyond even he 
who swallowed a rock mistaken for a son.


A poem for Tina:
Taken with a grain of salt and washed 
down happily by something with 
bubble and fizz. A beautiful. A
small. Not enough, enough for now.