Eyes See What I See
Lips Who Am I?
Ear Find My Work
What’s Your Mood? What’s Your Mood?
CONNECT Talk to Me
Cocoon Lungs


The day we met, after not meeting—

me, the butterfly, with a quiet past,

you, catchy, like a tune; I forgot

how the knotted, unripe days from when I came

I was barely there and still already breathing.

Mother’s heartbeat was my teacher.

I was good. I danced all twelve steps.

Doctors said I was a natural.

Father said I got my brains from him—

I guessed my birth was a magic trick;

I discovered breathing around you,

in my tight, button-less dress,

swaddling my body like saltwater pruned skin.

I grew bigger, grew wide, because I couldn’t in height,

and even under the then fragile sun

two mountains with peaks exploded, a cave swelled,

while underneath, in a hollow cavity,

I filled with a drunkenness,

the air, I suppose, red, full-bodied and heavy,

moving inside me like a hurricane.


(Without the moon,

the stars don’t know who they are.)