Years ago, our language thawed,
each letter pressed against my chest.

Now, I feel you in exhales—
collage of trees fathered by wind.

The almost-animal in me folds
a memory of our room in half.

I sit in the corner with unswept
sunlight & spiders, hungry

for your voice. I am one word
too many, a bruise factory,

unapologetic for the noun
of my body. My hips,

parenthesis. Not even the maple
can look away. But you,

you are the wonderful one,
smile like a C-section scar,

mouthing the river blue,
never making a noise.

Tongue, Endangered

Photo used under CC.