It’s the weight

of head
and shoulders
that compresses,
the pliable
between disks
that becomes
a liability
when
there is a pause
and your body
is folded

into itself,
but not haphazardly
not as grief
on the floor,

but folded
the way quiet
offers an invitation
to meet every
incarnation
you’ve been,
at once.

Do not hold
onto ache,
imperfection–
the idea
that you
are anything
in particular.

You are stardust
and specs of dirt
floating in a stream
of light, a breath-beat
pulsing, the blue
vein along
your neck
rising,

the smoothness
of morning
as if to say
it’s covered
the night
with a lightness
and now the cup
you’ve chosen
for tea
is ready, now
the slender crack–

a relief, to let go
of containing
something
wholly.

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Editor: Renée Picard

Image: Kennguru at Wiki Commons