The sound of something,
brushing against something else
Is a long-haired woman,
whose bones touch one another
Rather than interlock and fasten
as a means to connect.
Nipples, needlepointed
as raspberries, bags of blood
Staining rose on the fingers that touch them.
Soon she will take a new shape:
a fan of feathers, fluttering eyelids
Eyes close, and ears open
for sleep
She has become the sound
Of a mother,
who sees that her daughter is dreaming.