Here’s the thing:
it seems I was made to be broken
and my allure is an impossible fix,
what with longevity, inflation, and el niño.
If only I could stop
long enough mid-dervish
to thank him- where else could I learn
how to break free while heartbroken,
how all roads lead to an end?

I will forever couch my emotions
in rocky metaphors
and I will henceforth read weather forecasts
like a tragic romance.

With a twist
and a heave,
I have the moon
back between
my legs;

we are
airborne and
fancy-free.

It’s too quiet.
I’m in a wrinkled shirt.
I can’t find anything funny
in how the wind has turned away from me.
My jaw cracks, often.
I yawn to fight a panic attack.
Wanting arms around me becomes
too large a goal.
I throw messages to the weeds.
There’s no response.

The Empty calls
to me, with its alluring
dark, blank comfort
but I am stuffed –
with red and taste and laughter
and unbidden sobbing
and you,
which is perfect really,
and Full.

I pretended
the cracks
could only be breached
by machete;

something with too many teeth
close on my heels,
the glass building ahead
a place of safety
(since souls don’t count).

When I walked in
composed but a little ruffled,
men in suits looked at me sideways
not realizing how far I voyaged
to get here.