by Sarah Giragosian
First it was the weight of a syllable,
a low hum of a being,
then a throb in the backcountry
of my body. I could feel the bits
piecing together: gill slits,
ear bones, fish tail, lower jaw.
Her father, smitten, turned my belly
into a mouthpiece to make contact.
I’m hitched to backache
& to this hard meridian bulge,
but they tell me I’m glowing.
The spur on the stem is intimating
fruit, growing like the spider
veins weaving up & around
my calves. I know this:
the too-muchness of us
will be like scale built up inside a kettle.
What to do to do to do do do