When we are having breakfast
your voice oscillates and I’d swear
you can throw it
into the stretch of the galaxy,
embed it in one of Saturn’s moons.
Your serrated voice
could cut a coconut in two, could split
a pomegranate like it were hot butter
and it sounds desperate,
like you’re bathing in its drink.
Your fingers are purpled and pulp, there’s
rind under your nails.
Your feverish eyes swell, your throat
perspires, the temperature rises
and then you dig in.