Blood cells are born in the marrow. They flood the columns of the pelvis, the ladders of the spine, the bones armoring the breast and its collection of soft organs. Somewhere in the factory, a lever or switch flips the numbers, electrifies the circuitry, multiplies. One day you're born or wake with too many lunettes; unchecked, they'd proliferate so skin bruises easy, as if a crimson dew formed beneath its outer walls. I don't know how to keep you from this delirium that seethes within, mostly unseen. In early morning light, I scan your body for tell- tale marks, watch as breath curls around the curve of your throat: in the shape of a stone fruit, in the guise of a hive clotted thick with syrup. Aspirate, from aspiratio: an exhalation. How a mouth forms the sound of audible breath, the low hum of a quiet engine.