when my breasts are gone

my pug will curl up against my flat chest

her snores will resonate in my ribcage

vibrate in my abdomen

orchestrating our rising bellies in rounds

the baby on the subway says

baba yeah! get me out!

I agree in quiet solidarity

we're all stuck in containers of some sort

be they subways or skin suits or states

puppets sick with spirit

living off the tension

of resistance and sleep

I don't want to be productive

I want to be curious and ask questions for no answers

I want to make a mess

find something in it that looks like me

or feels like what I look like

on the inside

I want to remove the layers

wedged between my body

and truth