I feel my heart
pressed in my stomach,
a tiny pebble
wishing to be big.
I count my shins,
apple caught in my throat.

A great wall of
early morning
covers my ears,
ties my hands over my eyes,
                                                           makes my ribs shrug.

The place between your lips,
a wandering perch for
emaciated sounds.
A fingerprint under your nose
shapely and styled,
too purposeful.

I can draw
stories on my thighs
under rusty Wednesdays
and paperbacks.

                                                    ­        A misunderstanding of eyelids,
overly trusting,
a turquoise thunder.
None of my fingers match,
making a path from my heels
to the crease behind your knee.
I’ve forgotten how to make tea.