A womb borrowed by a worm’s whisper—
yet we too, cradle strangers,
our cities gestating children
we barely know___

The marrow orchestra tuning its teeth—
violins of hunger rasp within us,
each promise gnawed by appetite,
each vow a brittle bone

A feast of limbs at the banquet of thought—
we cannibalize our own gestures,
devour yesterday’s embraces
to nourish the hands of tomorrow

Soup of breath, slurped from a body’s husk—
is this not prayer?
Our lungs recycle ghosts,
and in each exhalation,
someone else inhales our leaving

Silver gulls spilling yesterday’s tide into open beaks—
we too regurgitate histories,
our mouths rehearsing
the same ancestral storms
for children who have yet to swim

A lullaby devoured by the singer’s tongue—
so love consumes itself,
the voice that soothes
also erases,
and we fall asleep within
the hunger of its echo.

:: 08.27.2025 ::