A final roar of breakers
one morning rattles the windows
of your ear and will not stop.
This is the unbearable
whooshing, the sleep-sacking howl
that drums your spirit back to life
and gets you to go to the doctor—not
the years of polite suggestions
sharpening like your figure—not
the fear of your own demise.
This was your warning –
after these last slivers
of fat depleted in your middle ear
there would be nothing left
to keep your body from eating
itself – nothing left between
you and the whistling void.
You had set yourself in motion,
wound so tight that leaving
your body’s house felt like
the only option – a purpose
bursting as you diminished.
Where did you go? I couldn’t
say but you didn’t want to be found.
I looked where your finger choked
your wedding ring, in private
spaces where you vanished
in nightmares, floating
down a dry well. I peered
into vaults, membrane-covered,
and sifted through basins
of dry riverbeds, finding
nothing more than little tools, bones, shells.
