Below the Surface

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Underneath my skin, households live

in my body. These are the ways

I’m a neighborhood: teen bands play

guitars in my liver, the twins

nap in my hippocampus, give

limp applause for the chorus line

who meets lung-side Tuesdays at nine.

I like the porch lights in my eyes,

but it might be time to downsize

before I lose what’s really mine.