2:05 outside the wall, she pulls the tape from the pole. nausea
drips from the chair where she sits. when it’s over, she’ll make
the call. verbal confirmation, she asks again. topics divided by act.
each account displays the answer. respond with “here.”

he shares the tuscan remnants, flipped to showcase thread bare
pink lace, stacked on stiff tan linen. one by one, plosives in count
against blue light mirror on frame, waiting. the pool - pushing
the balloon in. lifts hair against the mouth. yellow stripes
between cold white, she comes to rake the leaves. it’s not
physically possible - learn the new tongue. was it inside you?
front, or behind? digital? oral? did someone take pictures?
was it someone like you? were they bigger? was there an automatic
response? how many times did it happen? no one else in the world
knows this feeling. no one else understands what you have “here.”

faces change and it doesn't matter. all i see is chest.
the spindles wrap ankles, friction rolls back my shirt and i take
the linen with me. mask cuffs my face. i lay on the bed,
alert and exposed. “you’ll be awake through the procedure so we
can make sure it’s alert and functioning when we separate.” the
hollow tube sucks my tongue. i feel nothing as i watch my stomach
fill the outline with color and shape.

did you catch that game last night? i have this, in my wallet.
rachel wouldn't return any of my calls. do you know what they brought?

in the bedroom, the middle one: below the open window i face
against to avoid the eyes. every night i am five years old. he
curves the stomach. no one knows the time when it will end.
there is nothing to worry for: in this kind of end is eternity, an
endless cradle.
i bang my head against the wall until he knows
this is what i’m trying to escape. every night i am five years old,
i cry, and i scream, and i cry and no one comes for me.

time. prep for the next one, we're running late.