for a dear friend struggling with her young-voids, a poem for inspiration, or perhaps just proof that we are all the same.
Maybe for a long while—
a sense of waiting, of bone loss
of time on lines running through our bodies
together rolling on a wild hushed open
I had hopes of closure before…
the long wide brush which cups the desert
and makes us whole. It’s never too soon to ration
our matches. Never too early to siphon our love.
I had known of secret rituals—bringing back the dead
young lies we knew so helplessly wrong,
and yet, some other afterlife
was always better-still