You're a colonel.
A plymouth. A word
I've been pronouncing wrong
my whole life. A noun I can't
stop verbing, for fear it might
slip into obsolescence. A blip
of a heart monitor deep
in evergreens. Hiding, trying
its best not to drown out.
Thinking of you is an axe
in a forest not ready for ornaments
or the nooses of sequenced lights.
In the living room is god,
so fragile and ceramic, sneaking
sips of fermented sun.
His likeness, a centuries old
game of telephone. Yours,
an 8-month-old echo, wet
on 3x4inch paper, and I'm trying
not to jinx it, picturing
our legs hanging off a breakwall,
spray pouncing on us.
But by now you're a mirror
I've looked too long into and become
familiar only in small
spurts. The lesson's not lost
on me. Rachel or Bilhah. This body
so iffy, ill-fitted for creation
myth, and the truth is so many
times you will be carried. So many times
the myth is by me.