Well

photo by Elizabeth
It starts with the heart's pulse
      womb's embrace
   nourishment from other as if self

before we're spit into this slip slap of blue
      deafening white
   indifferent ground that shatters bone
         if we fall too long
            too hard

yet sometimes hands, like whispers,
      rustle through loss's deep well
   to retrieve silken strands

rewoven then into something like wings
      that expand beyond the contraction of loss
   and whisper through the dark
                                             you are not alone.

Thank you to the editors of 5AM for first publishing this poem.