where do you go? the hole in
your hands
keeps getting bigger. first a
pencil falls through.
then your teacup, then entire
bodies
like light, like you’re made
of nothing stronger
than tissue, than sugar
heated and spread
to look like glass. not the
real thing. not you.
your atoms sit so far apart,
your lovers
walk right through. one might
say, over
the top of you. but no need
for that, when you
can bend around their many
departures, the most
porous door. she came back.
they always
come back. why not. you are
not a creature
of consequences. one way to
survive a fall
is to believe very strongly
that you
do not have bones. another
is to watch the hole in your
body grow
until you are nothing but
hole, and who
doesn’t love a hole. you’re
the great circle
they can write their lives
inside, a flat
unused womb they can crawl
into. in this
way, you are useful. this
way, you can sleep
in the house that raised you.