Morning light,

I take the sad fact of my body

to the kitchen table

at least part time

trying to find somewhere

to put it for a living.

(Eat everything,

eat nothing?

“Still die.”)

This process might look impressive from far away,

in certain contexts.

I guess it looks like hunting.

Now I just spill milk on my chest

pretending you’ll unsee it, couldn’t imagine it happening

in the first place. You’ve said

I remind you of those deep water

high stress fish:

cakey eyes, headlights that make sense

in pitch nothing but

when taken to surface

explode. I had to tell you

“explode” isn’t really the word,

too sensational —

instead

their cell membranes

decompress without the proper prodding,

easing form, melting fat, brains

get stuck in mouths (so much for

selective barriers).

In bed, feeling less finite than ever

I dream a dream so I can remember

rubbing my face against yours

at the right pressure for

opening oysters,

pearls everywhere