You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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