They called me Jennifer Cole and I was scared
to die with the wrong name—
who would find me? Bother
to dig through the morgue
for the sickest little candy piece? Yet,

I didn’t correct them. Trained my brain
to respond to Jennifers, getting full
on hope that if nobody
could find me, maybe that went
for the insurance people, too. 

That’s not how it works. I left
New York’s grimy hospital stuck
like a nana’s embroidery, heavy
with bills and crossed-fingered
lucky starred that I still

had all my limbs to love you.