he's terrified of her voice
that whips his eardrums like kashmir switches
and tickles his diaphragm until he convulses
in nervous laughter inside his head

the way it inquires broadly,
like an opera written in tornado sirens and megaphones
and the brightness of lighthouses,
for conversation he thought
had drowned long ago and only
reemerges as bubbles on the lake's surface

a boiling body popping deafeningly
with anxiety, and plumping
bravery pasta, which smells seductive,
which he loves...

he's just not hungry right now.