She will find herself
in the corners of your kitchen cabinets,
uneaten and raw.
She will be the witching hour,
the quiet minute after flatline.
She will be the waking up into a silence
of morning breath and empty bedside.
She will let this be her year of cold linoleum
and smiling only when it fits her.
She will let this be the year of falling
every way, falling every direction
She will look for herself under
fallen cactus needles.
She will rip out the first pages
of all her books and
She is her own sacred spine now.
She is letting herself kneel
in all ways that don’t dent her knees.
She will find herself only on the day
she forgets to look, only on the day
she wakes up thinking she is a little less
than nothing and the sky is coughing its way
into a buttery and wide warmth
without her knowing.