Empty nest and hollow sky

Under our ribs our hearts are bloody stars. —Joy Harjo

Say you swallowed the moon like a wafer 
and all the luminosity and myth is in you, absorbed 
through membrane into blood. The moon
in all its phases, burning through
the body with a fullness and ache. 

In you, bile rises and falls pulled by new gravity;
sickness and relief in equal draw.
How this satellite rolls over your abdomen
like miniature elbows and knees. The same 
intensity that a child brings in its
daily recess along the womb's ridge.

Say the moon moves into your spleen
the sudden absence of light gnaws a hole that grows
between lung and rib, like scaffolding torn
away. Your heart becomes as lonely
as the sky, begins to miss that dedicated orbit, 
translucent face, the dim arch of light.

Then great sadness envelopes our world,
every night anticipating those cold velvet depths. 


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