There is a bruise on the small
of my back under the AUM.
This morning, on the way

to watch my son wrestle,
as I settled into the seat set
at the relaxed angle you

chose last evening, it ached, tender,
and I grinned at our own gentle
wrestling with waves of hunger,

time’s currents, and soft
cries pressed against buckles.
Alone, my mouth reaches

for your name over and over,
the sound that came
through your lips teaching

mine to say s as sh.
I would multiply your name
by all the words I know

to understand the ways sound
has arranged you into such
beautiful whispered angles.

Lend me your mother tongue,
love, and I will bend into them,
a curled sh into your sh.


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