My milk shattering porcelain drained down a kitchen sink because it curdled too
ferociously all too quickly. I buy more and I put it in the refrigerator. You slurped
through your teeth, the water in your touch
as I cradled the curdled milk in my own. We don't uncup
the liquid from our palms, but who would want to? But you
are always holding water and I am always holding milk. And they
never taste the same.


The gardener pierced through his gloves on his own. And it was obvious
to me, I believe, that he believed he'd need a new pair. He pulled the tethered
skin back gently towards the now imagined surface above
a not imagined shallow gap between the material and his
flesh where there was no compromise of texture and I
saw he was not holding water in his palm underneath.

Eggshells on the counter remind me of aprons. Lace trimmed
flaunting bodily décor. I see
an ill-defined bewildered reflection near the drain and I see
enough to know I see no teeth only rubber and metal. And I
notice bare palms.


The man outside collects worms in a bucket that he finds near
the water breaking from the hose. He peculiarly says they are for later
and rinses his hands before the bucket without shame. He opens
his mouth when he has not used soap
in a week. He opens his mouth twice.

I find white linen on the bed and it reminds me of being
parched and wilted. Withered and toothless and how
some women say their voice does not speak in dreams and I would like to say
that it was in dreams that you remind me of your teeth with your tongue. When you slurp
you always leave some water that way I know you
can maneuver and you can swallow.