Her stomach is a cave 
the snakes pass through: molecules. 

If there is more to understand, help 
me do it. I am using language like 

a limb. Eyelash: like I could stretch  
out, and it would be beautiful. I never 

mean what I say, which implies I always 
do. Tell me something about her.

Where does she go to hear voices. 
How will she know when to trust an image 

if she sees the body as something else. 
If she lives inside her body or mother. 

I would like to leave here wrapped tight 
in a blanket, with my children, to absorb 

my children back into me, as an anglerfish 
in the deepest part of the sea. Who can tell 

me about the pillars of creation, about how 
light means so many things, like elemental distance. 

Radio waves. What is the stomach, I wonder, 
but that cave full of snakes. I am so hungry, 

is what I’m trying to say. Language, images, 
light. The failure of my own sight.