Your hands cut my areolas
in the mirror. Your mother’s steel lips stick
as she cuts onions—showered
by hard salt.
You watch my ring finger’s stealthy
brush against your mother’s
breasts in bed with the children. I want to rest
between them—to be fed.
They have been cut like the eyes
of a woman who looks the wrong way.
In the dark, she feels for them, two bodies
stumbling through a tsunami—
to the other side. Dying the way
a tree disappears—bark shed quietly.
Underneath silent weeping
stars. Thank you, animal,
for your sacrifice. We lift black feathers,
break bread for each other; a flick of the wrist
and the waves are on—the way we rip through the sky
to speak to each other.