This year I can’t be empty.
Not in the belly.
The full womb like a page-turner:
which organ will split you next?
Empty house: the bucket under the gutter,
the cockpit, the BB gun I wished for,
perhaps the dishwasher.
The mind, however,
a running faucet she doesn’t want to leak
but soon she will.
Empty hands: no suitcase,
no stockings to shimmy on
and over a rounded prayer.
I always wanted to know what it means
to throw a whole body into oblivion,
like this (I)
like this (I)
like this (I)
you say three times your vows
under the breath of your sins.
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