You are finding her
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
You will look for her under
your fallen cactus needles.
You will rip out the last pages
of all your books and think of her
instead, just so she can be the only ending
She is her own sacred spine now.
She is letting herself kneel
in all ways that don’t dent her knees.
You will find her only on the day
you forget to look, only on the day
you wake up thinking you are
better than that.