I You were born with a nest full of eggs in your chest laid by some alien queen mother at the dawn of time for that right resonant frequency and when her daughter speaks it an egg will wobble, microwave words heat it to hatching and a phoenix! and my chest is full of hot feathers pinions tickle my throat a rush. This gasping feeling, a tumult as claws grip the diaphragm I want it wants to burst forth and we will pell-mell toward her on golden wings and the ash from your passage will choke her throat. So stop! Swallow, larynx burning. But, after this crush, to hear her voice! We choose my words like unripe plums, red, round, supple skin but still hard. This one a breast, that the bole from which Adam was fashioned. She returns words in kind, a code of delicate disproportion. II It is too much to touch; each other, the twin bird we suspect nests in her chest, the easy word like a crocus in the crack of a sidewalk. III Yet not enough. To touch is to ripen; flesh bruised under my fingers, bite the hip, taste the waist. You shall all learn that I am my own kind of animal. IV Alien queen mother, strands of molecules spun, entangled in centuries to make us marionettes, your eggs take little sitting in your lust for children. V The right tone must not be thrown lightly. We’re not all strong enough to wait.