TELEPHONE

When I ask if you have fallen
out of love with me and you

do not answer, I picture you
holding a tin can up to your ear.

I imagine a string tied
to its middle, like a leash

around the belly of a fat
silver worm. The string—

an escaped vein—runs
down your arm, over your knees,

along the bed, up my chest
and into my skin like a fish

hook or a feeding tube
threaded between the bars

of the birdcage over my heart.
I wonder if, when sketching

the rough draft of bodies,
the Designer was afraid

our lungs would be too much
like wings and float away.

- Sierra DeMulder

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