ring back

If sounds could fill our deepest well that lies
beneath the caverns of heaving ribs,
buried deep, replacing oxygen
and filling up our alveoli
with the toxic gas of a dead line.
That these sounds could impair
our entire constitution, with one
note.
Halting and catching
snatching our breath away,
and leaving us wilted on
the floor or,
inside a closet,
barricaded by books and blankets.


Then I think it’s true,
that old habits die hard,
and my need to hide myself will die with me.
And that I could look at a list of names,
and be unable to extend my withered heart.
I think it’s true, then.

That

My well is full of the echo
of the anxieties surrounding a waiting call,
never ceasing.