Papier-Mâché

Old newspapers from back in the day
when we read together, swapping sections
across the kitchen table, reading this and that out loud.
Flour paste, a kid thing, not good enough to eat,
but harmless if kids have a taste (they always do).
A soupy mess, but nothing more effective
for newspapering a balloon. The balloon a skin
stretched to its limits, swollen like your belly
at the end, pain made out of air. I make a case
for the balloon from soggy paper. My fingerprints
are black, my jeans spotted with paste. Tomorrow
I will paint it—your eyes and hair and lips in thick tempera—
white shirt collar, hint of health in your cheeks.
It will be you, both of us, really, holding our breath.