We Fell in Love to Aquarium Radio
For Brenda Venezia
and built nurseries on clouds and knew they’d sink into the sea eventually. Begonia and all. We dig until we find a bulb. A locket box. A memorabilia store. A pistil-shaped memoir. A pot of blue lip paint. An animal. A drownling. When the water ties our throats together, she watches through the glass, and we shift to shift her clouds to make her boombox play. Our breakfast table is smaller for this planet of swiped library cards, of girls chasing shark tails with buckets. The water makes an underground, and our feet dangle through the other side. Netting and empty soda bottles catch our face replicas in drops, and we shake our mugs like maracas. Shimmer eggs wane winter oranges turned to drum pulse rose milk staining our bra straps and pie crust we shake. She watches, her first time trembling, her fur twinning off the ice and the rocks.