I.
Empty is a strange destination,
like arriving at the end of the party.
My mom believes the softness
of my hips goes against what is true,
& there must be some gentler deficiency,
the kind where I am not to blame.
II.
I go home, I clean, dust & polish figurines,
big-bellied Buddhas & Mary in her blue robes.
I cook, I burn the garlic,
empty swells in every direction.
I avoid your gaze, I want your hands.
Even broken, the body carries on with its small tasks.
big-bellied Buddhas & Mary in her blue robes.
I cook, I burn the garlic,
empty swells in every direction.
I avoid your gaze, I want your hands.
Even broken, the body carries on with its small tasks.
III.
Wholeness isn’t for everybody,
not oranges, not worlds—always halved, always rended.
The empty drips between the lack & its name—
the one we decided on—meaning promise.
The one we don’t say.
not oranges, not worlds—always halved, always rended.
The empty drips between the lack & its name—
the one we decided on—meaning promise.
The one we don’t say.
Read on . . .
“Karyotype and Other Poems” by Rebekah Denison Hewitt