When your mouth moves I remember
what it felt like as I rushed to flip a page
and sliced my hand on the edge of words.
Every syllable you murmur in my ear stings
salt-lick strong in tiny caustic cuts.

I am four again. I will not breathe
until you untangle me, slowly,
from you, from your own undoings
that have become the paper wrappings
around the bird-cage of my heart.