In the morning when I do not turn on your light there

is a moment where even I

believe myself  a character in your dreams.

 

I just want to get back to where I was

you tell me in your native tongue as I crouch against the mattress.

 

I am trying to crush the system for you,

hoping to flip the story over and through itself until

one moment an opening appears in which there is an answer in a

liver.

 

Not yours, new.

 

You pull away the blankets to show your abdomen

round, gelatinous

a waveform in itself.

I go through my morning motions pressing

here

pushing here

until you’ve once again been pushed out the door.