Sounds of her pregnancy in the other room. Odor of damp wigs and the body's brachial splintering. Her eyes full of thread, dark as seaweed. In this light, she is aspen wood; her belly, wing-withered. The river settles in her mouth as mornings splay out before her with egg-cups capsizing, pillows askew, a doll breaking in her hands while the sun feathers the window. She can't remember the song her mother used to sing. Something about the egg-and-butter man buttering up his sugar plum. Days full of breastmilk and weathervanes. Her calypso moves her toward the door when the UPS man approaches. She grounds down into routine, but her hair remembers bachata, Miami, stilettos. A table-breaking Hallelujah. She is lodged in the beat of one stray finger against a jawbone. In this lickity split wetness, feel the Farm& Fleet crawl, the gibbous moon. Against static broken stations she hears wolves rain-howl, families brawl, as she dreams her way toward Florida's pale noon netting. Holding a handkerchief up to the changing light's narrative, its clovered air.