Every day, all day I wake up starving. This hunger
is more than small nothings crawling inside me;
it’s the small nothings that creep on my skin too.
In the moments between fullness and satisfaction
I find myself yawning. Dark grumblings between
membranes, nerve endings mark empty envelopes,
“Return to Sender,” hollowness withdrawn like
arms from an embrace, hands clasping their own
opposite elbows, the fingertips cold reminders
that every body stands alone, even entwined,
luxuriant in post-coital sleep. Self: contained, single
servings meted out biologically against all logic and
though one body comes from another body or in or
around one, each body defined by separation, even
one hand releasing another as in “good-bye” oddly
eats away at this notion, as if “hello,” a reservation.