Here is proof that he loves me:

Once, I am lifted by a warm dry breeze.

I am with child: the dust in this room has pressed itself behind me,
into me. My child is a silvery air bubble, lifting and falling inside me.
My child is smoke and paper, a thin strand of hair.

Again, I am lifted by a warm dry breeze.
My skin begins to crack, on my feet, my arms.

When I give birth, the child is as light as a slip of paper,
soft as dust, in the shape of a blind mouse.
The bones are sharp as fish bones.
The skin blows away.
The lungs are splayed like two feathers, lifting, sighing.
It trembles then blows away, grown old within seconds.