If the yearning
and I am no longer aghast in the rooms of my heart,
I’ll be going now.
If desire has ceased dripping
from solicitous lips,
the future is a yawning abyss,
a cave in jagged limestone teeth
with scars and stars and sparks spewing forth like, “I once believed
I’d be something good for those I love.”
If there is no more Lazarus
gesturing forward a cup of cool water to this little child,
no more ripe, full fruit hanging delicately
just atop this Tantalus’ nose,
then there will be no more striving.
Soul hallowed and stomach hollowed
by a hungry remnant of
Hope, sharpened by its primordial forms
to iron, scalpel point.
Quaint and dishonorable (everyone knows it),
the weaker species of expectation are indispensable in turning out The Survivor
Driven by the growling hollow,
I must turn that cave inside out:
thumbs pushing up under stalagmites into new mountains,
the dark, absurd depths become bluebird sky and
I crave that cold, thin-aired, vast
Divinity, welling and overflowing satisfaction of the most elemental kind.
It can’t be seen, touched, identified –
only gulped down,
more space-to-be-filled noticed with every swallow.
So I do.
I nibble, notice, chomp, masticate,
suck down every dribble that I can,
growing larger within, renovating all myself
because even though more space feels like lonely
I am persuaded it is more room for a weighty buoyancy to
move in, give birth, and repopulate the topography of my spirit.