by Nicole Rollender Divyansh Dwivedi My son says his body’s full of honey, jarred, electric bees — You’ve asked me, have you ever heard a death rattle — I’ve asked back if it’s possible to drown inside yourself, without sighing — I learned to pray anywhere you can name home or falling leaves or falling — My son, who wouldn’t drink my milk, smelled of wet petals — I buried longing within my pelvis, yet the wide sky opening in my chest — He asks: How long before I burst open