This isn’t the form
of what you’ve waited
to fill you;
it’s the shape that
houses your longing,
the shell whose dimensions
hold you lightly
– lightly as a cell holds the incarcerated heart —
while you press the walls
with your fingertips
the way your mind tests
the measure of your skull
in quiet panic, wondering if its
capacity to let in light
is just an incidental side-effect
of emptiness.
