I won’t speak, our ears
drowning with milk:
a ladled moon.
Hush, the buzz of a tattoo
needle. Listen. Have I told you
I could breathe fire until I grew up? Now,
I’m playing bone marrow, balancing
on chains. I am an egg
under the bed to ward off the evil eye.
Pink and green pills in morning, five whites
before bed. Have I told you, my baby
would turn four today? I am the lack
of shower curtains in a white tiled bathroom.
I am not what you need. Drumming
inanimate objects, breaking
veins in my thighs, dashboards, your back, I am
piles of paper running from room to room.