Lines of Communication
Between us,
words drill their tummies with a needle
and crochet themselves
over the threads that connect
our morning breath.
Shallow words,
but ours.
Our concave sounds,
bellybuttons bounce on our sleepy string,
beads reading
happy morning
and good Monday
and I dreamt my leg
traced your inner thigh in your sleep,
that I imagined your naked limbs
were tree branches, barren now
in winter, bristling splinters,
but come springtime,
will bear emerald buds
and drip drip in sap—
you may make me sneeze
but if I hold you tight now
I might somehow fill me with you,
so my insides don’t fight against
the pine cones that are a part of you.
Our hi, hellos
and blessed days
weigh down the taut twine connecting us,
careen in the breeze
or ceiling fan,
straining our thin thread,
the tightrope
on which our good mornings teeter—
can you hear it whine under our breathing?
If our threads snap,
and these words we’ve made
downpour to our kitchen tile
like the monsoon our weatherman promised,
will you still graze my hip with your mouth
and murmur good night when the evening comes?