You’ve walked in like a worldless god
and claimed me as your home.
How is it these arms cannot hold?
How is it this hair needs no tangled hands,
these thighs no tremble?  Whose breath is this?
Are you a demon or an angel?
You, wordless, whisper, give it all away.
At once I am an onion cliché, peeling back and back
in your hands.  And there are no tears
for what falls: couches, hair, clothes,
trinkets, houses,  a rainbow of countless gods,
and no tears to find that, smaller
and smaller, I am okay. I am
an emptiness that watches and waits
to be passed through.


Leave a Reply