truths explode, born out of blowhole—
splattering these kitchen walls.
crimson testimonies, settling near the window above the sink.
a farmer’s sink, i always wanted.
some summer day, some slow morning,
we painted drywall together.
my hair lazily wrapped in ponytail, biscuits rising in the oven.
i peer through glass now.
my portal amongst these seaweed shackles I have grown to know—
sinking without knowing
sinking without saying.
walls creak, as the house settles
blue-bellied whale emerges, offering an erect dorsal fin,
so that we may swim away.
:might he just swallow me instead?