This is the feeling when I climb inside you. Like holding egg yolks in my baby hands. Always cutting my fingers on the grater.

This is the beginning, but it feels like an end. You say, once this is over, like we’re living inside something.

A thing that is constantly happening. The wide open, the gaping mouth. The way it eats without seeing, without touching.

The way I look for it with my eyes closed, and only my hands are there, grasping on cotton buds and stalks of wheat. And what is my name except a sound that means me?

The first fire of winter that smokes up the lounge room. All our windows covered in frost and grass crunching underfoot.

Balling newspaper and collecting pinecones next to the highway. Running outside and carrying in wood, covered in splinters. I can’t help but snap the roots.

When I crack my chest open, and all of this is inside. The drought is long since over and the rain makes everything smell like eucalyptus.

The riverbank is primed for camping, though we’re not allowed to light fires anymore. The mulberry tree is full of fruit, and we make jam.

I say I made this for you. And maybe it is enough.