The body I once lived in was smaller.
It stood at the top of the stairs and waved
good-night; it wore pajamas that had feet.

That body could swing on ropes in the hay barn
and run alongside wagons in the field.
That one loved to eat pancakes and sausages.

The body I once lived in sucked her thumb
and had nightmares about rattlesnakes and pigs.
Next day, the rooster crowed; the sun came up

and the body I once lived in walked out
over the dewy grass to let the cows
into the barn, stood in the aisle watching

until a head was in each place, then closed
the stanchions one by one and brought the milkers
in. The body did not look in mirrors.

That one never wore shoes in summer,
except on Sundays, only took a bath 
On Saturdays, wore whatever clothes fit.