There is the out-of place
(as in the bug in glass
[and another one is marking my breast] ).
The date: a trepidation to set the cocoons free,
making much immaterial
(sure to leave none on the ground).
Even the dog is suspicious of weight.
I carry the heel of my left foot, then my right.
He offers his heel too.

I hand him pink. He blanks.
My mother tells us we’re supposed
to trap a tear. (I know that.
[But if only there was feeling
within the Dixie cup.] )
I smack fabric on my skin like polish
and then there’s more of me
than there was before.

I tuck a bug in and replace my chest
with air, I’m stepping lightly
to save the world. I’m housing
dreams in me like mold in cheese,
spindly and thriving.

Afterwards, we rock streams.
I pool my skirt into my legs.
He palpitates at a hemline.
I twist—juiced (still roundly ripe).
He leafs through my hair.

My house is a burden.
He leaves me there.

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