I remember you at birth
with a mouth full of cherries.
the cupboard doors swung open
to reveal teacups shaped like lungs.
there are ways to make this work, to sit here
there was a wide blossom of blood
in the sink, a rattling rack of ribs
in the oven. there is a way to cook
and it is not the same as feeling.
regardless of compulsion,
I will not throw you out
with the bathwater.