Hollow

You fill the closets and drawers, fold
and wait. In the pines between our homes,
your wife holds my ear against her belly;

something aquatic moves within,
as it must rise toward your fingers

cupped in soft instinct. With me,
your hands are sharp and sudden,
paint-flecked from the study, not

a study anymore. You press my hips
to bear your weight, calm that nothing

can break. Beneath you, I am a cistern
full of rain. In landfill, empty things
are flattened down: milk bottles, cans

and boxes, even cars are crushed
to steel sheets. I would remain gravid,

but am only cardboard, collapsed,
as she swells. Tell the village to stay
away, I have already torched my home.

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