Tornadoes Up Your Windpipe
By Marjorie Maddox
Mornings, I can see the inside of your skin
and how your words spin like tornadoes up your
before you speak, and how your glands sweat
like the slow leak in a hose.
I know where your pupils lie at the back of your skull
before your lids open.
Even your heart valves flap consciously
and your lungs, rough like dried mud, bubble
inside your ribs.
Likewise, I’ve seen you
sliding through my veins by the thin light
that curls through the curtains.