like a shimmering second
balanced between eager lips
you spill into existence,
birthing yourself
from my hinged womb.

i could be angry
that you hang around well into
my teenage years- making smoke rings
around my words, spluttering
acrid breath.

i could learn a foreign language,
speak only in tongues and hope
(foolishly hope)
you’ll get lost in translation.

instead
i let you sit on my tongue,
a paperweight,
a burst balloon,
a silver fish waiting to
jump
and spin
in the light of the moon.

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