Sound is born inside the net of your teeth and tongue,
each speckle porcelain, the dry skin at the crease of
your nose, birth, the natural way, long and
the shadow of an afterthought sleeps
beside me in the bed, fractured fornication,
she fills the empty space with fetal positions
and needlepoint frescos, she's used to the
pillbox hat, and his dirty fingernails, she's used
to the fury of conception, the phantom-utero,
heavy sleep behind her eyes.
Sound is born,
though she shall not be its mother.