his absence draws a dull hunger, clinging to the branches, the last crumbs of day. a salt sting perforates my lips and something like a scarcely healed cut has ruptured and fills with air and light and the surrounding unbody.
i've been about my knees, lying before the empty room and the Is beyond. wanting. asking. wishing. giving.
something like a scarcely healed cut ruptures. only the tear is good and the the closing back of flesh, dulling wholeness. is bad.
if there is anything we can appoint as such.
this life ever hangs in the balance. so it seems. not judgment. just incomplete, waiting. uncertainty swinging the scales.
..."why would someone so small try to make herself appear smaller?"*
times i would like to weigh 3,000 pounds, just to make a footprint, to move something beneath me. then, i could wish to wither to a rusk, lifted indefinitely, effortlessly.
i've been about my knees, lying before the empty room and the Is beyond.
wanting. asking. wishing. giving.
* loosely, from "Tumble Home" by Amy Hempel
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