Break/fast

Morning.

She tells me she is hungry.

I present my empty hands outstretched

palms up

to show her all that I had to offer.

This isn’t enough for someone

who dry swallows tornadoes

without even blinking.

 

I try to feed her my dreams.

Here is a melting blue guitar.

Here is an ocean in the shape of a house.

Here is a train made out of swingsets.

She devours them. Licks the plate clean.

But she wants more.

 

I give her half of what’s left of tomorrow.

Most of the morning and some of the afternoon.

She consumes it in one bite.

 

I give her a few old memories

that are just lying around

and I was going to take

to the thrift store anyway.

She doesn’t like the taste, but

her insatiable appetite

doesn’t allow her to stop.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I don’t know how to pour out

all of this empty inside of me.”

 

I try to fill her with words.

I use my whole vocabulary.

I string them together in long chains.

I smother them with adjectives,

but they don’t have any nutritional value.

 

Her eyes are two oceans

you need a life vest to look into.

When she reaches for me

I can feel tectonic plates of my chest

quake apart. Take. Take everything, I tell her.

Tomorrow the earth

will keep spinning no matter

how many times the door closes.

 

-From a writing prompt given by the SLCC CWC.

-April is National Poetry Month. Every year, poets and writers challenge themselves to write 30 poems in 30 days.