You are the building
that makes me whole —
my upright infrastructure.
They tell me you are bone,
sing songs that this
connects to that,
but how else to explain
the mystery pain
that takes up residence
in random places?
the cache they cannot see
with their machines
or diagnose with certainty?
the telltale whispers
in my head that haunt
but never relent?
the words that break off
from aftershocks
and fall at my feet,
collected in bowls
around my house?
I pick one up and write:
this is the labyrinth,
the year of sadness,
the walk on hallowed ground,
the day we saw whales
and he loved me because
I cheered.
