Every time she turns her headbetween your ilium & coxal bones,you feel your waterabout to break, afraidof that balloon-popin your pelvis, afraidbreak is wholly wrongfor what shifts or tears, slips& loosens. Bones break.Hearts, maybe. But the veilbetween your body’s end& her beginning? There’sno breaking it. Looks like that babyis about to fall               right out of you,the women call, holdingtight to what’s already fallenfrom inside of them. Fall too,wholly wrong for the waya body enters breathing.Rain falls. Fruits from trees.But body from body?There must be moreto describe such cleaving.Directionless & unfinished.I’m gonna report youto the grocery store, a manyells passing, you stoleone of their watermelons.How easy to beso wrong in namingwhat you’ve never carried.She is not a vine-trailingscrambler yet, spreadingas she clings to soil. For now,she’s still reaching for the sunatop a tall palm, stillhardening, bones in her skulljust starting to overlap, preparingfor descent, She’s onlya pineapple, you correct him,& keep on walking, oneslow bone in frontof the other, unsurewhich one of youis going where or howto name your joined,persistent motion.