I live in a case of cloth

I live in a case of cloth.
Every day swaddles me closer to my breasts,
to my breathing.
I leave the house with my butter bean eyes,
casseroling the sky, mostly looking out for sin.

People often ask me if the abacus under my eyes,
has anything to do with sleep.
I walk the mathmatical margin of social graces
in order to explain
I don't want to talk about it.

When I am curled up in bed like a mushroom,
I know that nothing makes me special
but the voice of my Da
calling across a Christmas,
'you were a changeling, and we staged you.'

*

Da, I've been dancing,
I still sing,
I translated every work you left,
and learnt basic Latin.

My case of cloth is wadding thicker,
I am dripping wet and thin,
I've soaked my stones in salt water
and dressed up, again.