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.


I wish we'd met while it lived; that it had taught me moth-tongue.


Besides, it was possible they’d revive.