Dear Cut/Throat,

Yet no image is decisive.

As the fog moves in and the creek rises we have our own
wounds in this geography.

At nightfall,
I thought I heard sirens,
the wet streets of my abandoned city speaking to me.

The baby in your belly
argues that mother’s milk is indebted forever.

Your tongue is your only accomplice, a classic love story of two desperate entities. 

Don’t touch me.  Don’t touch my private language. 

We can only talk in nonsense rhyme.