What is being related.
Your eyes have shutters. Your lips open to an elevator.
I step into a room, the room steps out into rain
shaped like a square that falls.
A person becomes a place,
a place becomes an ornament on a flammable wall.
You were mother's baby. You were my baby too. Red on the day you dropped like a fish, my pet already. I watched the kettle boiling.
Played nurse and mother by dials and switches, arm a lever
connected to the soft door.
You said, Baby, time for a nap
(but you were the baby, adam). I kissed you on the head. I kissed you on my sister. I kissed you in parts where the world vestibuled into darkness.
Cities on the coast are all tongue and trees and sister.
I watch the tongue swallow sisters, brick and arms and knees.
You said, Go back, Go back. Into what.
You point to a picture.
I directed us toward the room inside the highway, where the fast lights form a river and the river forms a plane, a wall, a curve, a blade.
We turned around. We watched movies backwards.
Trails on the windshield swept up.
Time alone has not made me
Adopting it has not made me a mother.
Your place in it does not give it balance.
My solitude displaces no water.
Dissociating has not made me powerful.
Bridges do not take me.
Light bends. Space is something else altogether.
The geometry of coupling closes and opens unseen space.
Space does not see.
Smiles grimace. The space of your mouth. Subtle holes.