When I eat 
oysters you look 
instead at a platter of ice.

All wetness 
is not equal. 
All pots start 
moist. Tell

the potter what you are. 
Mathematician and the numb 
buildings we enter. Holding

glass with a proof, a shape, 
an open. Yonic, 
word you 
taught me

while filling cannelloni, 
my hunger in a rented 
cottage for the weekend.

Before that, 
Ireland was the first 
place I was licked 
well enough.

A first naked 
oyster on a small 
harbor town. Cows 
on jade hills. Salty luxury.

I have a motherland, 
which a wax 
is named after 
but I do not participate.

I could have been born 
in the state of Amazonas, 
where my mother went

to an all-girls school 
and considered nunhood. 
Where the body is fed 
on fish, fruit and myth.

She brought 
me to visit. 
A child learning 
a tongue.

And my mother 
herself is named 
Yone. A word almost 
no one knows

how to say. Their mouths 
pause, open, and assume. 
Yone wanted to be 
a mother. Years until I

came to be. I know desire 
but do not make 
another exist. The force

of an egg on countertop. 
As though a breakfast 
is enough, as though 
the rest of life

a bed I can invite you into. 
To have you near my mouth, 
where I keep

welcoming the taste of any 

especially animal.