There’s a thing that opens up inside me -
“opens” might not be right -
like a jacket but there’s nothing within it;
it’s inside me, I’m in it.
There’s a button in the middle
that I push or pull or press or pluck
and it’s a button in two terms
and also a plug.
It pops right off, or away, or in,
and out pours all this black -
it pours out but also in,
and it’s also empty.
It’s warm and dark and damp
and cold and thick and wet and solid
and it fills me up
but also leaves me hollow.
It’s inky black and colorless
and rises like bread baking in an oven
and sinks like a stone in a river
and grows like a flower.
I see it spreading under my skin,
and feel a lump stick out in my throat
that makes an airy dripping noise
and pounds like hollow drums with heads of hide.
My heart pounds against my chest
and beats inward into itself
and races quietly and softly
in my neck and in my stomach.
And then the show is over
and I return to my body;
the black-out curtains drawn
and I wrap myself up tightly in the flittering snow.