His conversation isn’t much, yet.
it’s a foot wedged under my lowest rib,
a stretch that suddenly widens my abdomen,
the rhythmic tic of his hiccup.
When I sing, he falls motionless.
Listening, or just squeezed into stillness
by my contracting abs.
We talk like this—he with his limbs,
me with my diaphragm.
I watch my flesh distort
as he nestles comfortably into my bladder.
I look out the window—dark—
as if I could see someone coming home,
as if maybe if I look hard enough
someone will appear at the door
who can sing back to me.
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