IF I EVER FEEL LONELY

Am I a meadow opening like a pair of legs to a sultry sky?
A stretch of highway forsaking the last wild place?
A turtle scuttling across a highway to a meadow?
Do I stop my shivering car to help?
My anxious body jerks in its shell.

I am a pebble in the lung.

I once heard of a man who cut up his babies and cooked them,
Sliced open his wife’s belly and sewed them back in, saying:
I don’t love you. I love my tribe.
I am the powerless sound of his voice.
The frying pan. Final blink. Stunned knife in the bright room.
Sound of keening in the bathroom. Soap in the dish.
Blood in the veins. Feet on the coals. Heat in the fire.

I am a blossom becoming an apple. Bee. Insecticide.
Spray nozzle. Hand spraying. Flight to the next flower.
The one sting before death. Sound of thunder.
I am a young bird on a branch, watching.

I am dark matter: invisible but for the things around me.

Isn’t it awfully moving to be surrounded and alone?
Isn’t it like your own teeth ripping through skin to be together?
Isn’t it like a planet cooking in the constant light on a spinning spit?

If I ever feel lonely, it is because we are all one.
Are we not like a song disbanding in the air?

Originally appeared in This Broken Shore.

This Broken Shore is a literary magazine devoted to writing by New Jersey-connected writers. It includes poetry, short stories, memoir, literary criticism, art, and literary history. It features work by Robert Pinsky, Thomas Reiter, Michael Waters, Mihaela Moscaliuc, Susanna Rich, Adele Kenny, Alexander Dickow, and many others.