by J Michael Wahlgren
You’re umbilical love— I perceive,
the cupcake of burden, the belt, lifted, hot, Vesuvius-like
I fever. I fever. I fever, You ache.
I’m frail. I’m edge. I’m birthday candle, (she ponders…)
appearance shimmering in a mirrored sea:
sparks of conversation, sparks of silence?
On the ledge, we were part of sass
With my insides like an organ; you can hear the slamming of keys
without a stem (biological altercation of the fruit at hand).
Re-listen to the reorder, a shuttering glimpse into your own
dark room. I’ll see you there, dear. We reply
under the umbrellas of time. We shift the glass.
