This is the place where I keep secrets
and it's swelling with them, as if ghost baby's
waiting inside, as if my insides still had the means to feed
smaller bodies. What can you hear, resting
your ear on my belly? I've scrambled the words,
so the pieces of me
I keep to myself
sound only in code, as if I carried
a mockingbird in my womb.
At night, the bird cannot keep from spilling
its insistent song. You just need the key to these trills.
When I'm sleeping is when the song
starts, you can chart my cryptography.