O little girl, if I could tell you
of this place, how I entered and came
back I would. I would tell you of the suck,
the way I was pulled from one world
to another without noticing. Curiosity,
then light, then new, then you.
What speck, what sun, what cluster became
what fig, what plum nestled in my trunk,
what octopus tubes, what little arms,
this ship sucking me up and you begging
me to stay—what flutter of tentacles
stretching my body, making me someone else.
O little girl, if I could speak of these
things I would—but your need, your kicks,
your flips and transfigurations keep me
silent. When the sun shines, I wonder
if you see the world through red feathers,
if you long to unfurl past this ceiling like I do,
or if you long to stay here, like I do too.