I wait for her at the kitchen table—for her tongue
that absorbs what I have forgotten,
for her breath to make it known again.

I rediscover my stomach. My fingers won't fold
into their palms. This is how cavities are born:
when the body loses desire for itself.

* * *

There was no announcement she would not return.
I could not swallow. The coroner places my body
on the table. I am an atlas of veins and bruises.

My collapsed torso casts shadows on itself.
Soon I will be carted to the oven.
The fire inside: that which will last awhile.