I sometimes ask how my walls 
can have me: cornerless
home of half-water-half-air, 
clear: seen-through even when full,
and thick as a two-way mirror,
room to this sun-singed fish
that has since stopped spinning 
here, floating now
on its gilled toe-scales
pointing at the wrong side
of sky. I am not always
a jar, vessel for house keys
or coins. I am not
the globed lens of a telescope, 
but watch me swallow
light – all the way, in 
and past the body you carry,
filled new by your hands. I still
sometimes ask for those cupped 
palms and curled fingers,
most nights, bowing
for your thumbs to press into 
everything I have held, for you
to spill.