The mornings I’m alone and aching,
resplendent-mouthed and open-skinned,
the lashing rain is flung, retaking
the earth in fits of fickle wind.
And silence in the autumn hallways
is warm, expansive, safe as always,
a living thing that fills to blur
the corners with its fluffy fur.
The air is cold behind my shoulders
and underneath my sinking breasts
and on my thighs, presenting tests
that prove my bones as dense as boulders
and force my innards to revive:
I am alive, alive, alive.
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