grounded in this reality
always, something keeps me. today it is my jeans, digging into the soft skin under my belly, reminding me
this world was not crafted around my form

after all,
we are only burying her
in thought.

like an absent mind,
she isn't gone,
but elsewhere,

drinking spiced tea,
probably,
curled up in an armchair
in a library—

nothing could ever draw her
from a good book,
remember?

there are so many libraries
out there
and so many books;

naturally,
it will take her a long time
to get to this one
and come home.