Hand with its indoor voice,
parental,
slapping awake the stomach.

Come home, brutal in your swimsuit.
Eat and eat.

The tips of her fingers grace
skin, skate
nail-first the close one.
I need the voice one,

a second childhood,
a daughter.
I never liked loud noises.

From the garage,
from the front seat, voices
that take me into them,
that make her noise,

put their fingers in my ears
when the vacuum starts.