I have never felt you, but I saw your beady blue
transparency in the hand of a stranger.
She drained you and the mucous,
she strained you just to have you,
and I do not know you but I feel you.
And I wonder if you are the same,
or if you are even you,
and in this mood I am careful, and thick.
I dreamed about curious habits and
watermelon seeds; slick, black beginnings
buried deep in moist protein.
I woke up, choking on raw meat, trying
to swallow your well-being.
And I have not held you, but every day
I feed you,
and water you
and let you grow,
because, although I do not know you,
I want you.
If I did not write, I would
been sympathy for
If I did not write, they could have
their partner’s shoulders
about how they could have helped.
if they could have.
If I did not write,
a rope might not hang so loose;
a ground may not be hollow;
may miss another sister’s voice.
I become ferocious.
I let ink seep out from under
bitten fingernails to
pages of life.