We say “He” without a name
to speak of you,
hear our own sounds
echoed back from far away
in the monitor’s shush and fuzz.
At night, I hear you calling,
but it’s just a dog’s whine outside,
a wheeze in my own breathing.
Awake, you hold our hands
in your fat palms, then tug them
to your mouth, all tongue
and palate, zest and tang.
In squall and agitation,
you are unreadable,
vehicle too distant to send
clear telemetry. Rapturous
in exhaustion, we
bow and circumambulate,
we struggle to know
what you’re thinking.
Photo by Tembinkosi Sikupela on Unsplash
