A womb, borrowed.
The worm’s whisper pays the rent.
We too cradle strangers—
cities swollen with children
whose names we rehearse
and do not know.
Marrow tunes its teeth.
Hunger keeps the violins.
A promise, gnawed to white thread.
A vow, set on the table
beside the bone it came from.
At the banquet of thought
we eat our own gestures.
Yesterday’s embrace
is tomorrow’s hand,
still warm,
already portioned.
Soup of breath
slurped from the husk—
is this not prayer?
The lung keeps a ghost
only long enough to spend it.
Someone, elsewhere,
inhales our leaving
and calls the air clean.
Silver gulls tip yesterday
into open beaks.
Salt. Storm.
The unfinished child.
The beak does not ask
whose water.
A lullaby snags
on the singer’s tongue.
What soothes
is the swallow.
We sleep
where the mouth closes.
:: 10.04.2026 ::
