i squat under the kitchen moon,
in my white dress, the salmon’s throat
blooming around my hand.
it is a funny feeling to feel organs
cool against skin—a late night kiss
of sorts. i spin a ribbon out of some black hole,
still wet, still twitching, egg sacs tangled
in blood silk. a pulse is barely a pulse.
a pulse is barely anything at all.
he lies in the bedroom, waiting
for his dinner on a tray, his wife
counting stars in minnesota. layers pool
on the floor, my hair a dark and tender waterfall,
my nape a mere spoonful of milk.
i am learning to empty myself out
with all the gentleness of a soft egg,
that sprouts legs and swims away
as someone else’s love child. in a distant stream,
she uses her shell as a cushion, and no one
forces their way in. so i make a shroud
for her, pale and stillborn, sleeping beauty
laying down on a bed of violets.
some days when i dream, i am still a girl.