Some mornings, I come to on the floor,
my neck burned with moon tracks
or fingerprints, my tongue swollen
and split through, as if by an arrow
though it could’ve been my teeth,
or yours—I can almost feel the memory
trembling in me like milk in a pail,
or my throat when I’m scared to speak,
so you speak for me—and I don’t know
how I came to be this skittish creature,
shaking beneath your shadow, begging you
to hold my wrist, hold it tight against
the floor, and kiss my palm closed, tell me
I’m here, tell me I’m good, or good
enough, that the blood on your teeth
isn’t mine, and if so, that I taste clean,
like sap tapped from an underwater forest,
from an epoch when the Earth was only
ocean, and the only sound the wind
moaning across it—or is it a song?
Is it a name you gave me, still rippling
across my body from your mouth.
Is that what’s written in moon on my throat.
Or is it your name. Are those your hands
pressing hard against the bones of my neck.
Do you dream of that crack, as I do,
like lightning through a dark room,
the puzzle box of my skull opening wide.
And what do you see inside.
What walks toward you in that light.
Is it gentle. Is it good.