you sitting sidesaddle on my lap,
my chin resting on the shelf your collarbone makes
the words I’m reading rattling in your temples
thin, loose window panes in a thunderstorm
participles transmitted through my mandible
consonants through your clavicle
but lost in between your incus, your stapes
and the tremors in my hands
(dampened by your touch)
turn this book’s pages into cicadas
that eat holes in these pages
we nurtured and grew so many years ago
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