Maybe we never figure out—
Sedoku, David Lynch, _____. 
It’s a mad dash. It’s not.
I’m working to make it. I don’t 
know how to love you. I wake every 
night convinced I’m doing it 

wrong. I aim for ageless, I use all 
the creams, I keep my waist pre-baby
though I dream of nothing but.

A woman at the store: I’ve had two,
I wear Spanx with jeans. I am Spanx,
holding myself in shape against the world.
Maybe we never figure out how to figure.  

The parking lot is date-hot. The wheel,
the same. Every chance I can, I take it—
long drives in the suburbs,
tract homes like pauses, 
white fill-in-the-blanks. 

Originally published in Prairie Schooner

July Westhale is the author of Trailer Trash(winner of the 2016 Kore Press Book Award), The Cavalcade, and Occasionally Accurate Science. Her most recent poetry can be found in The National Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, CALYX, Rappahannock Review, Tupelo Quarterly, RHINO, Lunch Ticket, and Quarterly West. Her essays have been nominated for Best American Essays, as well as the Pushcart prize. She moonlights as a journalist at The Establishment, and has appeared in The Huffington Post.www.julywesthale.com