Apr
1
a fish hook, an open eye.
3/28
when he sleeps,
the snoring doesn’t bother me:
the rhythmic growl, gravel shoveled
across the sidewalk of his throat.
it is grasping, desperate way
in which he takes in air—his gulping lungs
as if every dream was filled with water
and he is trying to inflate
the life jacket under his skin.
i babble in my sleep. he believes
i am trying to tell him how my heart works,
says he will translate the manuel one day.
i want to ask him am i the ocean?
are you drowning in everything
i don’t say when i’m awake.
