In the diameters
of your de-elasticized neckholes
where the hangers leave
stretch marks
there are secret

In broken ratios
cordless telephones
still loop with translucent
jump rope force
the orb gerbil-caging
your exact
present tense

In that same bank account
I still drip—
forged in my mother's name
at the end of the
internet's awkward age—
numerals and vowels
and decimally
chins approaching
a new angle
each birthday.

I am lousy at math
but this fall:

our apple tree is heavier
with addition
than can possibly be

and after a subtractive year
the Animal Planet still
scurries and decomposes
in and out of reception

where the groundhog
is so fat now with the apples.

Paralyzed by my own
glottal stops
I suddenly hear the
television of the world
at the ungodly volume
of grandparental sonics.

And I see the weary machines
of my nana's ears
working through the neckholes
of novelty sweatshirts
I've gifted her at Christmas

and amen for love that does not
stretch out
like our rubber band muscles
or shit-talking apparatuses—

love that intimates for eternity:

Nana Rocks
Nana Rocks.