Your cropped locks, sculpted into submission, ocean-bottom black, swooping down to hang on your every word.
Your athletic heart pumps blood, charges forth with army of little green men, armed with plastic guns to scare off intruders.
Your protruding belly is not the result of idling engines or stony sloths but of the meeting of two sparrows whistling one tune.
Shivering for two is enough to make teeth shatter, but yours are limestone cliffs, resisting the shape-shifting dynamite that cracks the toughest of stones.
Dear mother, I hear you whistling the off-key lullaby of sparrows Singing the drastic poetry of life. You inhale empty pockets and exhale the question marks of dream clouds and faraway lands; you exhale into my blood.
A spherical Earth would allow me to carry the weight of swollen breasts and blackened baggage stains, to carve you a cozy cave, hidden in a molten core: No wonder we once thought the world was flat.
Instead, I share you whisper, waving to strangers to come feel what is means to be quiet. Remembering holiness for the sake of holiness and filling my own belly with the shaky bones of your leftover thoughts; unbreakable though they are.