That our thoughts beat from the chest.
That mankind is a race of halves.
Among hallowed Greek mistakes
The notion of the womb as liquid
Floating freely inside woman,
And would not stay in place,
Unless a man pegs it down
Pounds, puts his back into it,
Weighs it down with the pearl
Blessing to keep the womb
From rising to her lungs, throat.
From drowning in herself.
Gods dwindled to one, high,
Charged with the tearing of curtains,
The invention of sewing machines,
Biopsies, the appointment of bishops,
Day to day, the oiling of our sighs.
We had been following TV:
A broken woman’s face in the soap,
In the news, another of her faces, blurred,
Reportedly also repeatedly
Ground against the headboard, the ref.
From the chest. A race of halves.
My wife, she’s not speaking to me.
The air’s thick with something I have no name for.
TV’s been off for a while now, but her eyes,
They’re still on the screen.
What if it’s not endless?
What if it’s not beyond her.