No one asked what I wanted to be.

The career aptitude test in seventh grade asked:
do you like when things fit together? And I said yes.
It told me to be a cabinet maker or a brick layer.
Me, at twelve, took oak and cherry, two smooth solid surfaces,
and carved a cabinet for myself. I climbed in, armed with nothing
but honey, which never goes bad. The cabinet was good.
I slept for twelve years.

When I woke up and crawled out, me, at twenty-four,
was waiting with a career aptitude test that asked me:
on a scale of one to five, how do I feel about triangles?
And I said, three—indifferent. It told me to be a mattress tester                  or a brick layer.
Me, at twenty-four, sighed and frowned at me, at twelve.
In the room, there was a mattress.
We lay on the foam springs and stretched.
I slept for twenty-four years.