Into it a long white winter hides, unlike your stomach ache. It is not hand or foot, shallowed and shelled, plastic melting. Will I see for myself that it holds my little balls tight, allowing no slippage or flight? A pair of swallows march my mind line after line, keeping pages sticky and sweet, drying my instincts gingerly, like a mother. Into it a thousand whispers tell me how to tie my shoe, not with gentle handshakes, not the way you walk two by three or two. I dare say I am different than the skinny girl and her pink pill??? I walk alone. And this is not food, and this is not body. Whispers eat themselves, and they are the dessert of my orders.