You are becoming too much for me. I find it
difficult to read poetry, to read
anything. I roll onto my side, the book turning
with me, and I feel your body drop
onto the bed, weighing me there, small
anchor. My lungs have learned a new method
of breathing. Everything, all the organs
and bones, have taken new shape. This
is their method of survival: they are like trees—
leaning—when there is water or earth
to consume. Too much destruction. Growing plant,
I take you everywhere. How important it is
to protect your leaves, to keep your branches
from breaking. You do not understand
the burden you have become, all the lost
water, nor how lovely—
the ocean
and the fish who fill it.