We all live small in the summer house. Crawl in and out the door, every sink filled with milk. Once I was beautiful, but now I'm soft and smudged around the edges. Longing is a door I try to shut tight, but everything swells in the summer house. My fingers. My limbs. Everything drowns in baby spit. My dress gapes and my breasts ache while the baby crawls up and down the walls. Devours the buttons one by one of my robe. I try to hold her, but she wiggles in my grasp. Giggles while the house fills with water around us, then floats over us in bed.