If I could look up now, to find you at home, doing nothing but looking up at my rustling and asking after who knows what while I one by one remove each strapped member of the day knowing there is no thing I couldn’t ingest if it came from you, there is no thing your body could make I would not sample drink or gulp and most likely savour, letting it wallow some in a pocket of shine where my throat can roll. Whatever you convince your body to secrete, some thickly drawn milk, some fruit bittily crushed.