Loss is hunger in the shape of silence

(never admitting how writing has failed her).

Loss is a poet and she is running out of words. 

Loss is the dallying hands that reach for daily bread,

outstretched for sustenance: a worthy poem,

a home built from the beginnings of 

an empty page on an empty stomach.

Loss is subsisting on hands that shutter close:

hands that she kneads into red, those well-loved

calluses pressed against each other for the nervous 

countdown, waiting to erupt into speech or no speech—

her hands a face to break into beauty or envy 

(that rapturous applause always for another), 

that hurt a loss she will always hide. 

The burgeoning mouth awaits.

There is no sound. 

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