Look, my side splits with joy as if I could draw
the rib out of myself. Some days I’m just

a gate opening and closing. Or a pond
and someone swimming to the surface. Some days

you are listening, but not always. I was
a cell and a rodent. A seahorse and a horse.

And you? We were grass and moss, wasp and
the paper house. I was grotto, painted cave,

canals salty and webbed. You were sometimes
everything. When I come through here again,

will you be waiting? A root underground, a tuber,
a stone. Even if everything is wrong,

will you know me? I’ve never been able
to tell anyone, really, who I am.