There’s a sink whole
in my chest.
I smell pool water.
A colorful snake creeps up–
its teeth deep
in my brain stem.
I lose you every day.
Your face
molds my vision.
What you left,
coins of the material world,
haunt me,
just like you.
Which step am I on?
Backwards,
the unproductive nature
of my grief
stumbling around,
feeling for life,
finding
the quietest
space in the world,
a hollowness,
a vacancy-
No light,
no light at all.
The space sucks it up,
the sound of blood
drowns out the birds,
and the gray
has become
my ancestor.
Letters from the Playa 