We will speak, all wind and hail
icy tambourine of tin roof or nights
I sat on your bed folding warm
towels, pairing socks, still
inside out with you, still
marveling at the emptiness we tuck into

Emptiness is the hole punched through plywood pantry
door, exposing kidney
beans, sugar, vessels
bruised beneath broken skin, beneath
trembling arteries, that brute ruling your chest
We covered the fracture
with an unframed painting

How many guns have you lobbed into bodies
of water for me?

Emptiness is what I grip when I reach
the end of the map, reach
out, falling off the edge of knowing and knowing
and knowing I can’t know
Lost on the blank beyond borders or where
I seek a tidy conclusion

Selected byMaria Mazzenga
Image credit:Juan Davila

Current Hoosier. Master's student/Associate Instructor at IUB: Latin American and Caribbean Studies.  When I’m not riding race horses, I am studying Neruda and Marquez, Hemingway and Steinbeck. My heart for reading and writing poetry lies in the intersection of language, culture, and politics.