The more words I mount, the less tension I feel twining
my fingers through it. The room untunes its jaw, sagging
into slack. Meanwhile, Sam’s thumb circles
his chest like wingtips. “You know caffeine makes your breasts
shrink, right?” My thighs empty into my poem. “No.”
My voice plucks the air, the air plucks the language…String Theory.
“I didn’t.”’ That night, I fold over to shave the pine needles of
my calves out of wax-sap, my nose like feathers dusting
my rib cage, like someone rubbing an eraser against my chest.