Sometimes a sound, a womb sound.
Don’t deny that the infant remembers:
the cut and tear that begin to let in
the enormous light, the cut of cold

air to build her separate blood.  The infant
from blanket of body to a tub. 
A birth mother from blanket of body to
pitcher poured out.  And what

dry, dry mouths. 
What I have: the shape of a milk vase,
the shape a wide-bottom curve beneath
parting lips, the shape a hammer,

the shape a leaf stem just at release.
The pregnant woman on the bus
tells me her blood volume has
doubled by the thirteenth week,

that now she does nothing but sleep
and make protein.  I have taken
half your blood.  Or, given you twice your blood.
Before either could speak, we were

out of words.  Do you go composing
a handful of sounds, a shout, a shout
swallowed?  If you live by water
does it make all other rhythms

impossible?  A silence can be measured
like length of rope, or hair, or neck.
What language would we find
in the fold?  And then, what words? 
And then, what mouths?