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.

Ignoring the cool strummer,
tickle the foamy ridge
until the sun bleeds into water
-like the first days.

Don’t hesitate to open your eyes
during heavy breeding-
it’s the nature of the beak
to want to peer inside a fish
for all the answers of the ocean.

Inside… love, little chicks, love,
like the sandy floor that moves beneath,
like the spotted flickers of night
like home
like a summer song
like a full belly
like bodies’ feathered rest.

Come closer to the edge,
where wandering squawks
sound like an aural manna.

It’s Monday,
I’m sore with misuse
my limbs strangely light,
a fuzzy memory
of time bending
not ending
and his head resting
on my shoulder,
a branding
and a reminder
of a life lived fully
and without hesitation.

Burning beneath a darkening lash line
with unflagging pretense of safety;
the heart recoils in the open
like squinting in light
after leaving the movie theatre.
Continuing to lie about the pain
is easier and more horrifying with time.
When she says it’s fine, it’s probably not.