Bodies are meant to hold other bodies,

I’ve heard,

I know the sentiment, shared like an open secret.

Lego bricks, 2x2

blue, clicking apart and together again,

plastic pieces purpose built to hold plastic

Or soil soaking in maple sap,

leaves and mycelium

stowing pitted fern seeds and perennial bulbs

like a squirrel for spring.

 

there’s space in the deep darks

of pupils, and in mouths,

wet red tongues

running along the backs of stained teeth.

And in between ribs and lungs and the heart,

through the veins and blood-filled capillaries

of the chest,

is space not meant for air or light,

but something more imphysical.

 

There isn't space, but there is absence,

the noticeable signs that something’s missing, somewhere

just beneath the sternum that pushes back

hard against my own fingers prodding at my chest,

seeking not the empty space

where soil holds

toys hold

bodies in love

(in theory,

only ever in theory, cause)

 

Bodies hold other bodies.

Bodies hold

and are held

in tightly wrapped arms and the crooks of shoulders.

Brick by red bricks laid in long walls,

stained in spraypaint,

sticky with cement and sunlight—

something very very literal.

 

Just beneath my sternum, I

find something

very, very literal.