a two-cell speck,
before she burrowed so mightily
she made me bleed,
I dreamt she already filled me
like a wild bead of light
inflaming an otherwise black room,
the curtains drawn, the secret mine. How many?
the hostess asked,
and I held up two fingers—a walking we.
I seeped to the surface
of waking like a lazy swimmer
and was single again,
my body a foot away from his,
or leg on leg
but still a separate story.
I am a house,
the women say, and now
I know they don’t just mean their size
but others live here. I am shelter.
Her limbs wave yes
against the limits of my new inches.
Dear dream waitress, I need to tell
someone who will offer pie after:
Now I dream my stomach is flat again.
Now I dream I eat
the word autonomy whole
and hope it splits me
in two: the life of being
needed and the life
of that need undone.