"My blood is absent
when strangers ask for it
and then pools around my nose
when I am asleep and pretending
to be shadow being shadow
or the moon being the sea
or the sea making phone calls."
"She hovers at the window, alert to how the house breathes, exhalations as the front door opens, shudders. She hears movement. Footfalls, creaks, the downstairs kitchen cupboards. House-breaths rattle her apartment door the slightest, ripple. If the house was a body, the hallway and the staircase might be lungs."