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.
