You fed me Spaghettios when I asked
for Alphabet Soup and told me I was human when it dribbled

from my lips, cold splashing on my skin. Your dog’s hair filled itself 
around my hand like it was trying to warm me, to endorse my

attempt to form lines with pieces I could only tell apart
when I destroyed them. If noodle letters can be walls or soldiers

or your tongue why can’t they become the tight feeling coiled
in my intestines? I swallowed to let them take root, spreading

underneath the skin so someday I could pull them out. We sat
on your couch and listened to the poem I was growing

into, shaping myself into something that could inhabit
your shadow, your mouth, your bed.