The Thick Bark of Someone Who Is Hollowed

Now that                                                        I am older

I understand                                                 Death—

what it is.                                                       I was young

to feel                                                             when I first met you—

that smack of wind.                                     Your haggard hands shaking

against bark—                                              my scarred wrist.

I cannot,                                                        you missed my hand,

blame you                                                     by an inch.

I, too,                                                             with wounds

have wanted                                                  my heart

to be unmade,                                               beat faster,

to be pulled back                                          to heal unveiled veins.

Relieved                                                        you knew

the burden.                                                   One difficult thing,

of being alive—                                           Death.

To carve out                                                 my labyrinth,

the wood at her center                                would not end

and live there                                               that day

like an animal.