At dinner I lean in close.
I say: The ventriloquist's heart has eight chambers.
His blood lurches from one to the other. I am trying
to explain exactly how I feel. You say: let's go home.
In the car, I hear clapping and an audience roaring
with laughter. I follow you upstairs. Beneath my sequined top
I hide a music hall: no cover, two drink minimum,
jokes all night. The spot light softens. It's sad—
we all know inside the doll are nothing but fingers,
a voice tossed the length of an arm. The marquis lights go out.
I get dressed beside an open window. Even naked I hold
a suitcase of secrets. You watch me but say nothing.
I do not tell you what I know: His heart is too large,
blood enough for the two of them.