soy viuda de la persona que fuí. 

mi cuerpo presume a la guerra cómo una presea, 

montañas abriéndose en la curva de mi abdomen. 

creé mundos desde mi luto, 

y deje mi historia sin concluir. 

what is it about gluttony

about that beautiful thing

about that need to swallow 

about that need to feed 

how is it that i swallowed you whole

after you made me? 

i spit you out and put you back together. 

you do not look the same --

torn apart, wings pulled from your back like

a fallen angel. Lucifer did not glow 

as bright as this. i swim against the current, still. 

i search for you, still. 

hoping you can put me together, 

so i can see those infinitesimal parts of you scatter 

in my hands again. 

i am no Eurydice. 

Orpheus wrote of times 

like this, under the pale sun,

milky-white, like the plains of my skin.  

i would break my neck for you, 

maker of mine. break my neck to see you one last time. 

what is love if not this? 

if not your hands, stretched and furrowed with age. if not

your voice, rucked with that worry or your 

heartbeat, that i mimic, that rumbles in my veins, 

that i carry like a child since birth, the blood of my blood, the sorrow that courses through it.